


guarded by an angel mild

by lilaflora



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:48:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21637624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilaflora/pseuds/lilaflora
Summary: all in the name of custodial responsibility.
Relationships: George Harrison & John Lennon, George Harrison/John Lennon
Comments: 46
Kudos: 72





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first go! the longer i think about it the more guilty i feel because this is absolutely awful. the characterisations of both john and george are off, i made them wayyyyyyy too nice but it be how it be.
> 
> i find john and george's relationship very interesting. i think that their friendship easily rivalled john and paul's, particularly during 1965-1967. i wanted to give them some love, please be nice to me <3 constructive criticism welcomed!
> 
> title from the angel by william blake, which i'll probably feel guilty for the rest of my life >:( using a seminal figure in romantic poetry as a NAMESAKE so i can write beatles sex is not good. but hey, stan william blake and george harrison!!
> 
> count how many times i said 'thought' in this. year 6 'show not tell' lessons really taught me nothing 5 years on :/

1960

The first time they went together, it was George's suggestion. They were pissed in Hamburg, linking arms and laughing loudly. 

"Ah, John? Whadya say?"

"Are you fucking testing me, son?"

When George proposed that they sneak in the cinema, John saw it as a challenge, and definitely did not want to blow his case. 

Now, you see, John loved the thrill of a scare. John would have been content ducking behind hedges and hiding behind walls for the rest of his life, teasing the policemen until they decide they have bigger fish to fry and walk off.

He and Paul had once been running away from two policemen back in Liverpool for god knows what, and poor Paul had been so flustered, but pretended to enjoy himself. John saw it as purely fun, and Paul's reaction was hilarious- it baffled John as to why no one could enjoy the kick of running away from authority.

One thing John would never be able to hack was ghosts, or anything supernatural. John had seen a few horrible ones at Liverpool, and a few different ones in Hamburg. One night, a man watched him when he was in bed, even though he had no eyes. John drank himself silly the next night, and passed out before anything could watch him.

"Can't let you go and watch it on your own, can I? What would Mrs 'Arisson say?"

"I'm seventeen," George protests, to which John secured his arms across George's chest and lifted him up, the kid squirming in his grasp.

"C'mon Georgie, we're going to see the fucking scariest film the Germans can muster,"

George was still trying to punch his way out of John's arms, but John didn't budge.  
George had always tried desperately to impress him, but in Hamburg, it felt weird. It felt completely different to the baby following him and Cyn round. A bad weird. A very bad weird that he wasn't sure he'd ever felt before. _Not bad enough to make you stop hanging around with him,_ Stu had said once, after John's complaining that George made him feel inexplicably uncomfortable.

_"Why don't you just get rid of him then?"_

__

__

_"Fuck no._ "

They approached the German cinema, and it was then John had realised what he was getting himself into. He knew he wouldn't turn back though, for two reasons.Turning back would imply there was a problem. There wasn't. As well, he felt an almost paternal instinct to protect George. In the fucking cinema all on his own? Not a chance.

They crept in the back with very little difficulty- it was easier for George because he's so little, albeit more hesitant that John, but other than a few dirty stares, they successfully made it into seats at the back.

"Angst! Ich habe Angst!" George playfully mock-whispered in George's ear, to which John furrowed his eyebrows. _The fucker is smirking._

"Your German is shit mate,"

John and George both knew conversational German, but that proved pointless. No horror films had been made in Germany since way before Hitler, so it was a silent film, with shit quality and clashy music and horrible German subtitles. 

" _This_ is shit, mate," George moaned a minute in, impatient and fidgeting that could only be perceived as very suspect of a boy who is not scared.

"Blame those fucking Nazis, eh Georgie?" John tried to retort with the same carelessness and casualty that George attempted at, marginally more successful, which was enough to fool the littlest.

The film seemed scary enough, since a young couple at the back were clinging onto each other very tightly, which stirred the bad weird feeling in John's chest again.

In an eerie way, the fact that John couldn't understand it made it even fucking scarier- he couldn't grasp what any of it was, he could only see- he could only see the nanny see her children get possessed, and it made him feel sick. He became aware of his hands balling up, and resisted absolutely every urge of covering his eyes- he had company this time. He wanted George to know that he was stronger than that.

Funny, he kept trying to chase an understanding, but the film captions were just a jumble of consonants that John thought should never belong together. _Z and S? Together?_

_The problem is that you think too much. The problem is that you address yourself as a person you are talking to rather than are. The problem is that you are._

John thought back to the couple.

_You have no business wanting that_

__

__

_I want that._

_It is not yours if you want it._

__

__

_I want him next to me, very next to me_.

More things he couldn't understand. A _stupid, fucking metaphor_ that made him subconsciously lean toward George. Warm, gangly, and ugly George. Strikingly hideous that it meant John had to sneak a look at his face again (and again, and again), in an attempt to fathom how someone could look like that. How a man could look like that. Bad weird.

The feeling of being so helpless was so bewildering that John had to remind himself that this experience was as much his as everyone else's. _It is yours if you want it. You want it_. John expelled the implications of the thought and the way his heart galloped away as quickly as the thought itself had arrived. 

A quick glance at George showed that George was still very much engaged in the film, angering John to an extent where he wanted to pull the boy close to him and fucking carry him all the way home. 

_Get bored, Georgie, then you can both bitch about Germans and their mediocre film making abilities._

A child was dying on the screen, which meant that John really noticed George's hamartia. The kid had always prided himself in a really tough exterior. Not that he was out of his place in the Beatles per sé, hell, he was the best guitarist in the band, he just knew he couldn't give the other boys, particularly the elder leader, any easy ammo to mock him for being so young. He saw George's skinny fingers sporadically clench and unclench, and, with a quick lean over, saw red and swollen palms from where George's nails had dug into his own hands.

George's tragic flaw.

George flinched as a woman screams with blood on her hand, at a man who isn't really there.

It was a dizzying revelation to John, because there was George, their George, _your George,_ drawing blood because he was scared of the film and scared of John, yet all John could think about was teasing the boy, despite how _fucking scary_ the film actually was. It was dizzying in that he knew he would tease him with the rest of the band as an audience the very next day, and the thought alone meant that it took absolutely all of his willpower to not cup the boy's hands in his own. Closer. He leaned closer to George.

__

__

George noticed John staring at him, and playfully tried to flash him a grin, an ugly, gross smile full of wonky teeth in an attempt to diffuse how intensely John was looking at him. It made John have to blink a few times. It became clear that George's mask would not break unless he was really terrified.

A woman is dying on the screen; she's being murdered by nothing, one might assume she's killing herself; she's writhing and squirming and screaming and you can't hear her at all, only an awful dissonance of chords on the lower strings and a high pitch tremolo on the violin.

John looked to the screen, at George, then quickly back at the screen. He was suddenly aware of his own fingers curling in on themselves, and thought he might be sick right there. 

He heard George's breath catch in his throat, and saw his feet kick back in his chair nervously. He really wanted to tell him that it was okay, but that will do two things: for one, it would imply there is a real problem in the first place, _which there isn't_ , John assured himself, and it would make George sulky. He didn't want to see George sulky, yet patronising words of comfort were at the tip of his tongue to annoy the boy. 

He looked at him once again, both his and George's faces flushed red. George quietly groaned into his own arms, his wrists digging into his eyes before he combed his hair back and settled his arms on his lap.

Everytime he thought the climax of the film arrived, a new scene came with another horrible murder. 

The scene that almost made John's resolve break was the one that had little Georgie push back in his seat. George's hands twitched and looked as if they went to instinctively reach for John's, before pulling back shakily into his own lap. The action alone made John absolutely miserable, and John suddenly became overcome with the desire to hug him and hold his little hand. He could do nothing but wait for the film to finish.

As soon as the it was over, John vowed he'd never go to see a stupid fucking scary film ever again. Not for Cyn, not for Stu, and certainly not for George. Little, rattled George whose hair was simultaneously ruffled and sticking upwards, the little George whose lips were upturned in attempt to compose himself and smile at John which made John's heart melt just a little bit, but also thump and sting.

"That was fun, eh?" George began, his fingers still fidgeting.

John laughed; conversation was a genuine distraction and conversation with George made him feel weird, which was a nice distraction from scared.

But there was something about George's ugly, horrible face that made John feel so overwhelmed with something; something he couldn't fathom so dispelled with a mock instead.

"I'm not fucking going again with you, son. You were too fucking scared to keep still for a minute,"

George opened his mouth, but stayed silent.  
No desperate attempt at defending himself. Just sad, dark eyes that looked too miserable to even try. He instead, very uncharacteristically when it came to John's sneering, apologised, and, even more uncharacteristically when it came to anything to do with John in general, looked John in the eyes while doing so, only for a second, but enough to make John's heart fucking drop.

 _You fucked it, prick_.

Back at the Bambi Kino, the rest were already asleep, rather unusually, which John was grateful for. 

John wanted to linger a little before going to bed; he thought he could chat and laugh with George more because their abrupt conversation earlier left John out of sorts. George still seemed not sulky, per sé, but more solemn- yet John knew, perhaps better than anyone, that there was a very thin line between the two for George. He was enigmatic and mysterious but his pretences were easy to work out. For John, anyway.

John suddenly felt very drunk, which was odd, because it was more a sudden awareness. In Hamburg, it was as if they were all perpetually drunk, but the acknowledgment of it made him wobble on his feet.

George picked up on it and placed a steadying hand on his waist, asking him if he was okay.  
It made John's heart melt with something for the boy, but also his skin scorch. _No, you silly boy! You've got it the wrong way round- I'm supposed to be looking after you!_

John wanted to thank the boy, but his ego would never allow him to do so, lest George think he could be genuinely grateful for a boy 3 years younger than him. 

John went to poke a sleeping Paul's nose, who swatted his hand away in his sleep, to John's offense.

"I think we need a fucking dog in this shithole. Would liven the place up a bit," 

"Oh yeah, you think Bruno will be happy with that?"

"He can be the sixth Beatle. We need a PR man, 's a chance for a better life,"

"And you'd take him out, yeah?" George giggled, the absurdity of John and a pet clearly appealing.

"You fucking testing me, son? Eh? I'll have you fucking know that I'd be an excellent father."

"He could be our son. People would ask him who his parents were and he'd say 'JohnandGeorge' and would make us so proud."

"He can talk now, eh?"

"Course he can. He's our's!" George said as he played with the imaginary dog, holding his hand out and encouraging paw! paw! 

Something about the situation made John feel so intensely about the boy, in which he felt the same feeling at the cinema again, a fierce, scary one of which he had absolutely no control over; he could only wait till it bubbled over, which it really fucking didn't. 

A feeling so alien yet so familiar that John responded in the only way he saw appropriate at the time. _Go, go, go!_

He tipped the glass of water in his hand all over George's bed.

It took George a while to react, and even longer for his face to catch up. He blinked in disbelief, his face contorted a horrible mix of anger and confusion and desperation. 

"What the fuck was that for?" George spat, his voice quiet. John shrugs. 

"Funny."

George paced around the room a few times, clenching his fists as if preparing himself to fight. There was a fire in his eyes that John had never seen before, so much so that is really fucking frightened John.

"You prick, you absolute fucking prick!" George almost cackled, his eyes ablaze with fury.

George got close enough to sock John, to which John actually flinched. Whatever George had to say, John knew he fucking deserved it, and in a twisted way, wanted a grilling from George so that George would never speak to him again and only then would John perhaps start to feel normal again.

"I'll go home, John, I'll go home if you want me to. I'll do it, I'll get on the next train tomorrow, I promise,"

John felt as if he'd been slapped, or shot, even- because the ugly, wonky boy didn't shout at him and didn't scream at him nor did he punch him, he stood in front of John completely miserable, the fire in his eyes before quickly washed away with a glassiness, and it was none other than John's fault; the thought alone making John involuntarily mute and very, very still for a few moments. George frowned some more at John's failure to reply. 

John would laugh at himself if it were not for the very sad and very bitter George next to him, because the bad weird had not been doused in the slightest, instead it had only been streaked with guilt too.

George pulled off the blanket off his bed and winced as he groped the damp patches, before setting up on the floor, which was a little less damp. 

_Invite him here. He needs it._

John mentally scolded himself for being so fucking soft. 

"Oh c'mon, George, don't sulk,"

Nothing.

"George, come in here for fucks sake. You'll catch your death down there,"

John shifted to the side of his bed in anticipation, but George laid still. 

John thought back to the dying woman, and saw her all too suddenly in the back of his head. She looked different, she had much darker eyebrows and darker eyes and a jawline unusually sharp for a woman. She was oddly beautiful, a picture of grace and comeliness, but not the overwhelming, scary kind -she was lovely and warm, were it not for her squirming and writhing. The thought of her hurting or dying made John feel a very familiar heartbreak. He wanted George next to him again.

"C'mon, Georgie, don't be like that," 

George lay facing the ceiling with his arm strewn over his eyes. _Clever boy, pretending to be asleep, when the fucker never sleeps on his back_.

"I'm sorry, okay? That's what you want? It was just funny,"

Nothing.

"I won't kick you out the band. You'll stay right here with us,"

_With me._

George remained silent. His breathing was still shaky, and his chest rose in irregular intervals.

_Fraternal responsibility._

John acknowledged that he would not be able to sleep for a long time, so let his mind wander to his and George's lovely dog, in an attempt to stop the man with no eyes across the room from looking at him. It didn't work, and, like every other time the man has been there, John thought that he would die. He thought back to the couple in the cinema.

 _Her_ , John reminded himself. _It is her you want next to you. She is beautiful and she is pretty and she is she._

John had seen his fair share of dogs in Liverpool. Some fat ones that made him laugh because no one on Liverpool could really afford to eat that much, save for that dog.

The man looked at him, pensive. He looked as if he was trying to place something, but also looked as if he was about to kill him; as if he was trying to figure John out and crucify him at the same time. John pulled his best poker face in return.

A fat dog! He'd spoil a dog rotten if he had one. If he and George had one. 

_George! You made him sleep on the floor! Look, just there. He's trying to sleep, but he won't be able to. You know he won't be able to!_

It felt like the man was behind him now.

The dog! A fat dog. Nicer to tickle and to cuddle than a skinny one. Nicer to look at than a greyhound.

 _The worst he'll get is a back ache. It's not like he'll resent you, or anything. He'll still look at you. He'll still laugh at your jokes, you know. He'll definitely still trust you, even though he's cold. He won't start hanging round more with Paul and Pete to avoid you, you know. You know?_

The dog would he called Bingo, like the song. If it was a girl, something beautiful- maybe a Martha, Delilah, maybe a Daisy?

The man was behind John, he could almost feel his breath on his neck.

But the dog! 

The man was behind John, only soon he really, really wasn't, and looked as if he was towering over George, and George was squirming and dying except not really, but he ought to have been since it was all John could see. 

_Oh, George! Please come here! Come right here. George, sleep here. Sleep next to me. Please, George._

_You don't beg._

Simultaneously, the ugly, skinny boy sat up on one of his elbows.

"John?"

The sound of George's voice in the air rang like that of an angel; it was at that moment that John realised that George _is_ an angel, an ugly, young one who comes just at the right time, which made John's head spin with the consciousness that he needed the boy next to him- it was by no means a case of simple want. 

John knew that it was too dark for George to see him nod but he did so anyway. George's whisper was so communicable that John shifted up in his bed, before there was a freezing weight next to him, his back toward John.

"Christ, George,"

George could only shiver in response.

Now, it was the kind of time in the night in which John had identified that nothing really could be held against you. It wasn't like being drunk, in which you could owe any actions to lowered inhibitions, instead, it was inexplicably better- because nothing counted. The thought delighted John so much that, had he had the energy, he would have mentally berated himself for it.

"John? 'S cold," George looked at John under his thick dark eyelashes; the second time that night of direct eye contact. 

John said nothing, but took George's hands in his own and blew warm air into them. John was surprised at his own forwardness, but at that point it had been a miracle that he'd been able to resist touching George that long, a realisation that he gave absolutely no thought to.

George's hands were so cold that it made John's feel warm by induction, which made John flinch at the prospect of just how poorly George would have been had he stayed on the floor, or worse, his soggy bed.

_You haven't done that one before. You've never made someone's bed wet._

The familiar spike of guilt pooled at the bottom of John's belly. The same urge he got when he chucked the water over his bed, but before he could act upon it and hurt George, he wrapped his arms around the boy and touched their foreheads together. 

The sheer intimacy of the action, regardless of how it was him who initiated it, made a long dormant sensation emerge, and it was the horrible familiarity of it that made John feel like screaming. He wouldn't be honest with himself, though. Pay it no mind. 

"Just to help you, like," because God forbid John not justify himself and let George think he just wanted a cuddle. He wanted George to know he was better than that. To think, at least.

George didn't seem to need much of an explanation, because he nestled his head just under John's neck and latched his arms onto John's back, and John became acutely at the living, breathing, lovely and ugly thing he had in his own hands, his very own hands, who was there willingly and wanted to be there.

 _Maybe he sees you as a family member; a kind of comfort_ he thought, only the prospect of that seemed weird and inexplicably _wrong_.

George's fingers were on his shoulder blades and George's hair was in his mouth and yet the contact still did not feel like enough, but John buried that thought by squeezing the boy tighter.

The possibility that George could _need_ John in the same way that John felt he needed little George made John eyes wet- he only let himself cry when he heard George's breathing even out.

He had told off George himself for crying when he got homesick in Hamburg.

 _"Grow the fuck up, Harrison. Act your age or fuck off home_."

John could only feel sorry for that now.

The tears came easy, too easy, for someone who was 20 years old and in fucking _Hamburg_. 

John took the sleeping boy's face between his hands, to which George murmured and went to touch John's hands in his sleep. The action alone made John laugh amid his tears, really really laugh- the kind that sound like one of pride or awe, the kind you'd expect a young father to laugh when he holds his child for the first time, although a pang in the bottom of John's chest told him that it was not like that at all. 

George had seemed to fall asleep pretty quickly, oddly serene for how scared he appeared at the cinema. That was John; it was John's doing- George was sound asleep and John had let that happen, yet John could only feel grateful, as if he _owed_ the boy something. 

The horrible, bad weird feeling re-emerged when the ugly, skinny boy buried his face completely in John's chest and sighed, to which John let out ugly, spitting sobs; he was decidedly the happiest and the saddest he had been since arriving in Hamburg a few months ago. He did not ponder either of the two feelings, and fell asleep an hour after the younger.

 _Never again_ , John thinks bitterly. _Those films make you soft and scared_.

Only later, _thank you for being here with me_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and George explore Huddersfield together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took me long enough hahah. i think this is poorly written but the premise is quite cute. features very very horrible john but also very guilty john, a lot angstier than the first part. i am so so sorry if by chance you live in huddersfield, i just needed a ‘haunted’ setting and my attempt at yorkshire dialect is awful. this IS a slash fic, but i wanted them to abstain till ‘65, which will be the next and last chapter.  
> hope you had a lovely christmas<33

January, 1963

"No, no, no. Absolutely fucking not,"

"For _fucks sake_ John, I am here, y'know?"

"You sleep with your eyes _open_. That's fucking weird!"

"Don't tell me you believe in all that shit!"

"No, but its still fucking wrong!" _A lie._

"You want me to swap with Ringo?"

"Nah, he's too much of a snorer. George never keeps me up," _Another lie._

"Whatever," Paul chucked his clothes in his suitcase before flouncing out of the room. _That fucker sashayed!_

John could only laugh as he lit a cigarette and angled himself on the bed, trying to get as far away from the bed that Paul McCartney was getting _fucking possessed_ on the night before. John allowed himself a rare glance in the mirror, before turning away from his reflection completely. If he was being honest with himself, which he rarely was these days, it would be nice to share with Ringo, or carry on sharing with Paul- he and Paul had written good songs together and Ringo was very amiable, which was why he owed his want to sleep with George to purely a sense of custodial responsibility.

He chucked the leaflets he'd found earlier on the bed, his cigarette a stub by then. _Quite ironic, don't you think? Things to do in Huddersfield?_

"Hope you know Paul's fucking crying next door,"

John's cigarette fell out of his mouth at George's sudden intrusion, leaving a nasty grey colour on the lovely white sheets; one that he'd have to sit on if Brian ever came in to talk to them.

"'E's worse than a fucking bird, he is,"

"You must've pissed him off though. Didn't even give Ringo an electric shock when he stormed in."

"He was sleeping with his eyes open. Eyes all white and that."

"You sure I'm alright to sleep in that bed then? Sure I won't get possessed?" George laughed, combing his hair, looking at himself in the same mirror.

John remained uncharacteristically still, but made an effort to laugh. _You didn't think of that, did you?_  
John only flinched again when he saw George looking at him through the mirror with eyes big enough to rival Paul's, only darker and lovelier and uglier.

George picked his fingernail, an action awkward in itself, yet John's head could only swim with comfort and warmth of having not-so-little George in front of him.

"He used to do it all the time, _y'know_ ," George playfully mocked Paul's _frankly quite stupid mannerism._ "Me and him went hitchhiking once, remember?" John rolled his eyes. 

_Fucking ironic. Course you don't, cause you weren't there. Only little Paulie and little Georgie_.

"Thought he was dead, all staring at me while he was fast asleep, like,"

"I went with you two the next time. Remember that?"

George's eyes diminished at the sudden change in topic.

"Yeah, I know you did. I was there,"

"You remember Paris, for my twentieth?" _I chose Paul and not you_ , John's harmless question said. _You weren't there. It was only me and Paul._

George's face muddled in disbelief, half frowning, half smiling- as if he was supposed to find it comical.

"You know I don't. It was just you and Paul,"

"Oh,"

"Yeah."

Both John and George looked down at their shoes.

"He denies the eyes thing as well, it's funny," was John's meagre attempt at salvaging the conversation, retorted with an air of carelessness and humour, to which George said nothing, instead tapping the ash of his cigarette into the ashtray.

George got up and turned on his foot and mumbled something about a drink or a bird but John couldn't hear because _George is leaving the room!_

"George."

"Yes?" George sighed; a benign, justified reaction that should not have stirred up the intense bad weird in John's chest.

"Brian said we should go out tonight," _He didn't._

George stood unconvinced.

"In _Huddersfield?"_

"That's what I said! 'S nothing new!"

"Is he making us?"

"Course not. Just said it was worth exploring," _He didn't._

"We've been here three days already."

"I know."

"I've already seen some of it."

John responded with nothing but a stare. _Not with me, you haven't._

George surveyed John, looking all _pensive_ which was funny because if George had any brains at all, he would have picked up on John's lie, but his face soon melted into a little-bit-happier-than-neutral expression as he went to sit next to John on the bed, mindlessly pawing at the tourist pamphlets, doing little to actually read them, instead rearranging them on the duvet. _Endearing_ , John decided, a judgement so fleeting that he had no time to tell himself off for it. Closer. He leaned closer to George.

John shuffled through the spread out leaflets, disinterested yet compelled to arrange something.

Muttering something under his breath about _fucking Yorkshire_ , John eyed one leaflet and went to grab it, George clearly taking a similar initiative, so that John's left hand and George's right hand latched onto the same flismy bit of paper.

Truth be told, it was the first time John had ever wished that the government had stuck to their laissez-faire attitude and hadn't made education compulsory, so that he couldn't read the _Huddersfield ghost trail_ leaflet and he _wouldn't_ get all hot and bothered and excited to go with his very ugly friend three years his minor, because he wouldn't know how to read. _You wouldn't know how to read!_

George smirked, to which John could do nothing but mirror his actions. 

"There are no ghosts in Liverpool," George started, nodding. _He's not the seventeen year old you knew._

"There isn't," _Another lie._

"But there are in Huddersfield."

"Yeah."

"Let's do it, yeah?"

John grinned. "Yeah."

_Fuck Yorkshire, making you fucking soft._

John surveyed the information on the leaflet. It was a guided tour on all the haunted places in Huddersfield, with very obviously fake reviews and ratings all in a _frankly awful_ font; John opened his mouth in an attempt to point it out to George to make the younger laugh again, before he was interrupted.

"Wouldn't you rather go with Paul?" George said, half comically, half bitterly, with his head tilted to one side, to which John perversely squeezed his fist in his lap in a surge of excitement, feeling genuinely _triumphant_ , for George's reaction stirred _something_ in John's chest that John had come to find not so bad in the last 3 years, so long as he didn't think it of the implications of it and didn't act upon it; not that he knew how he would if given the chance. John felt an odd sense of pride, as if he'd succeeded, which, in a twisted way, he most definitely had.

"No. He's got devil in him. Fucking terrifying,"

"And what about Ringo?" George asked, his eyes sparkling with what could've been fucking _fondness_ for the drummer; an idea so repulsive and wrong that it made John's eyes widen a little in his inability to think rationally, only a mantra of _no Ringo, absolutely no Ringo_.

"No?" is all John managed to squeak, rather disappointingly but also completely unreasonably, but in John's defence, _Ringo doesn't fucking sleep with his eyes open so what can I say?_

George seemed to accept Johns justification or, rather, lack thereof; he laid back on the bed and nodded up at John, offering him a shy smile, which was evidently the ugliest and scariest thing John had ever seen in his life, because he could only reach over and give George's hand a little squeeze and look at him for a moment before taking a similar route out of the room that Paul had taken 10 minutes earlier, albeit more quietly and not nearly as sulkily. The not-so-bad weird was such a nice sensation to John that he skipped into Paul and Ringo's room without so much as a knock and tackled said Paul McCartney into an impromptu hug, who had clearly come back around from his sulk by spending time with Ringo ( _anyone would, he's lovely_ ).

"Why are you so excited, Lennon?" _A question he did not have the answer to._

"Can a man not just be happy, Rings?"

"Not you, old man" Ringo squinted, thumbs caressing his chin as if pretending to be deep in thought, before running over to join John and Paul in their wrestling match. 

"Well what's going on here then, boys?" a half-scouse, half _whatever_ drawled from the hallway, an attempt so bad that it made Ringo and John giggle even harder. Mr _I went to a clever grammar school with little Georgie_ actually turned his head toward the doorway, to which he couldn't hide his relief that it was George and not a copper.

"George!" Ringo yapped, arms extending in a come, come motion. George only giggled and joined them on the bed, flashing all three of them an ugly and _really fucking delightful_ grin. 

Paul laid back on the bed and exhaled, lips upturned, looking awfully proud of a joke he'd clearly just thought of. He started laughing, really laughing, so much so that it took him a while to actually say something coherent, winding up the other three in the process.

Finally he managed a "Feelin' a bit cold lads, don't ya think?"

" _Paullll_ ," Ringo groaned, extending the name so it became two syllables instead of one. John tried to adopt the same reluctant facade that Ringo had, only he knew he'd give _anything_ for a beatle sandwich right now.

George raised his hand in the air. "Me and Paul should get to stay in the middle. We are the babies, after all," he demanded, impressing both John and Ringo with his paradoxical reasoning, as he would never point out his age voluntarily, yet he utilised it so skilfully just there that the two eldest could not deny the boys.

Paul plonked himself on the other side of George, making absolutely no effort to not dig his knees into Ringo and George as he did so, so that now Paul was sandwiched between George and John, threatening to push the latter off of the bed altogether, and at that moment, the word content seemed an understatement to John because somehow a few of George's loose hair strands had made their way into his mouth despite him being a whole Paul away and Ringo's elbows were sharp against George's back and Paul was shrieking with varying degrees of volume and laughter.

If John had realised he'd broken all the promises he'd made to himself 3 years ago with the very same boy, he either ignored it or embraced it head on because it did not mark a shade of change in his demeanour, he only reached over to jab the part of George's waist that, from plenty experience, he knew would make the boy yelp, to which George retaliated by inciting an offhand wrestling match with that was more a flurry of hands than fists, all over a squirming and giggling Paul.

\---------------------------------------------------------

Their show went well. They were not headlining yet, nor did they get screamed at like the headliners did, but John could feel a kind of spark; he couldn't see it because he could hardly see Ringo five metres away from him, but he could definitely sense it.

It was late by the time they finished, even later by the time they had packed up, so Ringo stayed with the performers and Paul, bless him, had gone to bed, always the most sensible and healthy. John rolled his eyes at the thought of Paul happily munching on his egg and toast bright and early at 8:30 am.

John didn't feel _nervous_ , per sé, it was just that if he had to pick his nails for another minute he'd have to go and find a bird or two for the night, which he had absolutely no trouble convincing himself (or rather, asserting) he didn't want.

Clearly skipping pleasantries, as soon as he saw a rather collected George in the hallway, he grabbed the man's shoulders and spun him 180°, adjusting his hands to aid his push into the air to land squarely on George's back. George, to his credit, took it very well and was stronger than he appeared, shaking his head and letting out a little _tsk_ sound, evidently very disapproving of the whole John Lennon he was currently giving a piggyback to. 

Bold for someone with his arms around the subject's neck and also oddly observant for someone with the subject's hair directly in his mouth, John giggled a rather insulting "You look a mess, George."

"Everyone's a critic, eh?" George chortled back, because in all honesty, he did- his sweaty hair had dried down; it was flatter than usual, and appeared a little longer than it normally did. _Horrible, embarrassing. That could never be you. That could never be anyone else. No one looks like that, 'cept from him_. John only squeezed his arms tighter and buried his mouth into the junction between George's shoulder and neck to stifle a laugh, looking up at George's eyes awfully fondly considering the boy hadn't made any real joke at all. 

George was ranting or retelling a story of some sort, which seemed to make him completely forget his very skinny frame, merrily plonking down a corridor with John still on his back, stopping every few seconds to hoist him up a little more. _Like a puppy, when they forget it's their own reflection that they're barking at. That's George, that's your George._

George only dropped John after they bumped into Brian and Mal before they managed to get out of the hotel, in which a very calm George was dragged off by John into the general direction of the exit as he was _just about to explain!_ to Brian that they were going out just like he'd requested.

"What was that for?"

"Funny," and if the answer didn't suffice, George didn't show it, merely shrugging. 

"Where do we start?"

"'S a guided tour, Georgie. Wouldn't go with just you, you'd piss yourself."

George pinched John's arm.

John, always the gentleman as he had so claimed _(but you just jumped on my back, you prick!_ ), arched an arm out with a flirtatious _M'Lady_ and an animated wink, which George graciously took, shaking his head at the obvious homage to Hamburg, where John and George would _always_ link arms and laugh in the streets; the epitome of contentedness and carelessness, except not really, because John hadn't felt at all content nor satisfied with something about George, which was as hard to place then as it was now.

They started at the station, the tour guide an old soul who wasn't even the sweet kind, he was really fucking boring and spoke more slowly than Mimi did when she was moaning about something John did.

The group was small, consisting only of John and George, a fucking _kid_ who had come without a parent, and a young couple who bore a dizzying resemblance to others he'd seen before. The George hanging on his arm seemed suddenly comforting but also very, very hot.

"Jonah Marr. Unfortunate man, reight unfortunate man. Porter 'ere, at 'uddersfield. Died by falling onto the tracks all t' way back in 1874. Yer can 'ear 'is laughing, if yer listen 'ard enough,"

If George was trying to convince John he was a man now, it sure as fuck wasn't working, because George very apparently couldn't fathom someone sounding like that, turning to John with wide, laughing eyes. _So fucking giggly tonight, like a fucking bird_. It made John laugh too.

_You're okay. He isn't here, 's only Georgie._

They made their way onwards, the kid boasting about his dad who seemed very probably a criminal by the way his son spoke about him; it was the same kid who proceeded to laugh at John when he tripped over a stump. George looked to John with his mouth wide open, before absolutely _losing_ it, the prospect of John getting laughed at by a _child_ clearly very entertaining. John quickly shook off George's arm. Almost instinctively, John expected the tour guide to yell at the boy, like back in school, where kids would always rat John out, earning John either a smack or a sense of triumph after a dismissive _don't tell tales_ to the snitch. 

"Don't take that! Go on!" George looked at John expectantly, nodding his head in the direction of the boy who was still laughing at John in a similar manner to that of John's actual friend, George. _The fucker knows what he's doing._

"I'll let him have it, needs the ego boost. Got a face only a mother could love," he rather pathetically offered, face scowling as he did so, despite the kid only looking 10 years old tops. George could only snigger and nod his head in an _mhm_ fashion.

"Don't sulk, son. What would Mimi say, eh, seein' you grovelling in the greatest place _in t' world_?"

"Are you _mocking_ me, son?" John kept his eyes fixed straight ahead of him in an act to keep his facade of solemnity, whilst simultaneously jabbing George in the spot that makes him literally squeak like a fucking guinea pig, which earned them a glare from the tour guide. It felt right to laugh when George laughed, and it felt right to cosy his cheek to the top of George's head for a second when George looped his arm through John's again.

 _George is drunk. Is he drunk?_ For a second John pondered smelling his breath as if he was his father. _He didn't have time to, it's okay. It's your Georgie speaking to you._

_He's not your son. He's younger than you, but he's still not your son._

_Still mine, though._

_Yeah._

'Mine' remained completely undefined.

"John."

"Yeah?"

"I hear him."

"Who?"

"Him," he giggled again. _Jonah Marr._

"Worse than a bird, you are. Gonna ask for Paul back,"

"Oh, you _wouldn't._ "

John smiled at George. "Yeah."

They carried on to a hotel, that looked so old it looked out of place even with the rest of old Huddersfield.

"Unhappy soldier walks round in this 'otel sometimes, only seen 'im once or twice but 'e's definitely there," their guide slurred, to which George shivered and fiddled with his fingers _. He doesn't have a coat, John. That's why he's shivering._

"Why the _fuck_ didn't you bring a coat, son?"

George rather triumphantly rebuted a "I'm a fighter, y'see," which was so lame that John immediately shrugged off his own coat and cloaked it on George's shoulders. 

"Take mine, 'm on fire,"

He wished he was lying. George patted his friend's shoulder by means of thanking him. 

George seemed genuinely fascinated, looking down at the leaflet from earlier. "'M gonna ask him, the man."

John's blood went cold. "What man?"

"Tour guide. I like this tour," 

"You're leaving me with _him_?" John gestured to the boy. "Leaving a damsel in distress?"

"Won't be a minute, _beautiful_ " George blew John a very smacking kiss; John could only stare at the back of George's head as he caught up with the old man, and he was on his own again. _He finds him interesting? He finds that man interesting?_

John went to get a pen and his book out of his pocket to keep himself busy, _you are not dependent, John_ , with no success- both were rattling in the very coat he had given to George a few minutes earlier. 

_George has your coat! It's not his, it's not his at all- but he has it. And it's yours!_

_Go on, kill him for it. Grab him by his little, ugly shoulders and yank the thing off him._

_Nonsense! John Lennon is successful and handsome and talented, save for the fact that he hates his bandmate._

_Those have no correlation- you don't need to be fucking in love with your bandmate to be talented._

_Maybe he's just jealous! Because John is adept and not ugly and_ \- really fucking cold.

John shuddered, there was no _fucking George_ hanging on his arm, to which he pathetically _whimpered,_ absolutely helpless and lonely. _Never with George; never for George again!_

The tour guide was rabbiting on about something to do with a catacomb and a church which completely anesthetised John; it winded him and sobered him and made him realise exactly where he fucking was, and, most stunningly, _you can't even bring yourself to care!_

He owed it to fear- he wanted George very next to him because he was _scared_ , something which he was sure he'd never voiced even in his head. He was scared, even though he hadn't been listening to the tour guide at all and had even less of an understanding of how fucking haunted Huddersfield was than he did this morning.

_It's the ghosts you're scared of! Imagine if he saw you now! The boy, imagine if the boy saw you now._

John considered talking to the boy for a moment. He didn't know him, he took a loathing to him at first sight, yet it seemed an alright idea.

_You're not fucking scared of the ghosts! You're just dirty and accustomed to getting whatever you want._

_Ghosts! There was a man who followed you in Hamburg, remember. He tried to kill Georgie. Get George to come back. You're scared of him._

_Scared of who?_

_Him._

Maybe the kid would be funny. Maybe with the right training, he'd be a mini John. Maybe, in 15 years time, he'd be the toppermost of the poppermost. That would be nice.

_You're scared, but not of the fucking ghosts. You're accustomed to getting whoever you want._

_Who?_

_Whoever._

_Maybe it's Stuart, it might be Stuart. We miss him, maybe it's Stuart. We promised each other we would, remember. It could be Stuart._

The kid cracked all of his knuckles on his left hand at once, oddly impressive for a boy whose fingers were so stubby.

_Stuart wouldn't scare you, though. You're bitter because he's taken it, John. George's taken it and you're scared._

_Taken what?_

_Whatever._

Fuck it.

"What's your name, kid?"

"What's it t'you, ya berk?"

John immediately wanted to sock the kid but also had no energy to; there was no-one beside him that he had to make an effort to maintain his toughness to, so he merely shrugged.

"'S Johnny."

"Your name's John?"

"Aye."

Now, John was so fucking up himself and simultaneously so flaggelant that he glowed a little with respect for the boy whilst absolutely resenting him for having a name so ugly.

"They call me monkey in school though."

"Oh yeah? Why?"

"Wanged a macca at t'teacher once, with nowt but me fists!"

"A _macca_?"

"Like a stone." John puzzled as to how one could through a stone with anything _more_ than just a fist, but refrained from pointing it out, because the kid barely had front teeth.

"Saw you all hanging on ta your friend like a _bird_ ," the kid laughed at John again.

"Right, that's it," and with that, John clasped his hands on the giggling kid and held him like a baby perched on his side.

"Let me down, missa!" little Johnny laughed; trying to push and kick his way out of John's grasp.

"Not a fucking chance, son."

John didn't have time to berate himself for acting so _soft_ and feeling oddly proud of himself for making a friend 15 years younger than him, because George turned around, smiling in disbelief at his friend. John only grinned back, flashing him a thumbs up and a wink, that not-so-secretly _said see this? I'd make a fucking amazing father._

_You're going to have to, but you won't. You know you won't._

_Stuart wouldn't scare you, you're just scared._

John lowered the boy down, gently ushering him forward when he was on the ground again as George took his side again. John went to lean against the gangly and skinny and cold George who was also lovely and warm and pretty, but halted after the _very oddly perceptive but also completely off, completely off!_ words of the chubby cheeked boy rang through his head.

"Didn't have you down as a nonce, John."

George only earned a glare in response.

"Can we go? That man was fucking boring, John. Don't like it here. Should've made me stay with you."

_I did! You should always stay with me._

"You wanna skive?"

"Yeah," George barely finished before John grabbed him by the sleeve of his coat into a smaller street, but he didn't struggle or complain, he only looked up at the roofs of the ugly but oddly quite cute houses. John felt drunk, which made his decision for him.

"A pub, son? 

"Whatever. I'm fucking starving," 

John was envisioning a scene in a western, where two strangers walk into a local bar and all the regulars interrogate them because no one outside the town comes in, which, thankfully and rather anticlimactically, did not happen- George only plumped himself on a seat next to the windows, fiddling with a coaster. Opposite him, John took his seat, fidgeting and _relaxed he's really fucking relaxed._

George leaned over the table and before John could work out what was happening, George was easing John's fingers open so that his palm was flat and exposed; John felt hot and sick and something else, only to be quenched with a much more horrible feeling when George placed some coins in his hand, grinning and gesturing his head toward the bar. He didn't know what he had been expecting (except not really, he knew _exactly_ what he'd been expecting yet was too fragile a man to vocalise it, even to himself), but it provoked a feeling so intense that he had to make an effort to still his own trembling hands; it made him feel like he ought to cry at himself and cry at George, because it felt like rejection and it felt like anger yet was truly much sadder and much more miserable. He resisted the urge to throw the coins back in George's face, a truly commendable feat considering George looked uglier than ever, with his eyes masked by eyelashes dark and thick enough to rival Paul's and his cheeks all flushed and relaxed.

John stood up and nearly walked into a chair in the process of getting to the bar; he turned around to see if he had embarrassed himself in front of George, who fortunately had his eyes still focused on the window, grinning into the palm of his hand, looking rosy and glowing and relaxed as if he was already drunk. If John hadn't been so focused on walking in a straight line after his silly antics, he would've given more thought to it.

John didn't know what he ordered but it seemed okay because he soon had two pints in his hand and the bartender was nodding back to the table that John had come from, telling him his food won't be a minute in a thick Yorkshire drawl. George smirked when John plopped himself back down at the table, and smiled even more when their food arrived.

Watching George tuck into his pie made John feel sick to his stomach; there was something so grotesque about George laughing at his own messy eating habits and something even more sickening about it being all in front of John, George _liked_ him and George trusted him enough to not be embarrassed nor flustered when he was snorting with gravy dripping down his chin because John and George were friends, and John found he loved him just a little bit as he watched George try and explain a _ridiculous_ story half drunk without laughing, with no success because John could barely hear a word. _This is lovely_ , and, to his own surprise, he let himself have that one. It still made him feel sick, though.

"What made you change your mind, eh?" George was interrupted by a barmaid at their table. She put two pints down in front of them that John had absolutely no recollection of paying for. To John's own horror, George clearly recognised the girl, grinning up at her with his horrible wonky smile, to which she stroked his shoulder and winked at him, before sauntering off back to the bar.

John made absolutely no effort to hide his shock. _It's okay! It's only that George has been here before, maybe yesterday, or the day before,_ though even John knew that was a flop of an explanation as to why both he and she were mentally fucking stripping each other with their eyes. John shivered again.

"What the _fuck_ was that?"

George only shrugged, the same daft smile stuck on his face. John wasn't stupid, he knew exactly what that was.

"We've been here for _three_ days, George!"

"Oh. Yeah." 

_Typical Georgie- yaps like a puppy 'til you want something out of him_. John wasn't particularly shocked at George's pulling, he was twenty years old for God's sake, except he really, really was- his George was succeeding John now, which was weird; _it's threatening! That's why you don't like him getting off with other girls. He's trying to take your place_. Back in Hamburg, it was really quite cute, because in almost every café within 10 minutes of the Bambi Kino, John was fucking a girl behind the scenes, so whenever John and George went out to eat, George would stare at him with big, curious eyes when the waitresses would give them free food or generous discounts. It kept John and George with full stomachs, but also kept John satisfied in more ways than one- he'd always had a steady supply of girls but, more importantly, it kept George looking at him like _that,_ as if the kid was fucking in love with John or wanted to be John. John preferred the latter, of course.

 _I'll kill him if he does it again,_ only he knew he wouldn't; he really, really wouldn't.

John was so caught up in fucking feeling that he forgot to congratulate his friend, offering him a mere box on the shoulder, and his best fake grin. George took it.

"'least she gave you a free drink as well, ay?"

"Guess so, son."

John downed his pint at an embarrassingly fast rate, craving the feeling of being inebriated so much that time seemed an obstacle. George, ever the copycat, followed, only he had a much smaller frame than John, so could have probably done without downing a fuck load of strong Yorkshire beer like his friend had. It had been all easy conversation after that.

" _Ohmygosh_ , John!" George started flapping his hand, as if whatever was impending was of the utmost urgency and importance.

"Y'know what they call these here, eh?" George began excitedly, reaching into his pocket to reveal a little stone in the palm of his hand.

John did know what they were called; he'd had a similar reaction to that of his friend when the little Johnny had recounted his very heroic exploits of hitting an adult with a rock.

"Nah, go on son. What is it?"

"'S a _macca_! Tour guide started going on about a macca and I got scared."

"He's everywhere, i'nt he, I swear to god!" John slumped back in his seat, conversation flowing. It wasn't that it was awkward when they were both sober, John and George had known each other for six years, it was just that John didn't have to regulate himself so incessantly, because he didn't know how to when he was drunk. He could only laugh when George laughed too.

"Might give it to him as a present, y'know?" George went to put the stone back in his pocket; John couldn't tell right from wrong because all he knew in that moment was that he _didn't want George to give Paul a present of a fucking stone_ , so he reacted in the only way he knew how, slapping the stone squarely out of George's hand into some poor pensioner's plate. 

Both John and George instinctively turned their heads to the window, to avoid suspicion of perpetration, with George even throwing in an idle yawn into their act, even though it wasn't his fault at all. 

John usually got an easy rise out of annoying George, but for some reason, George's apparent indifference to John sending his gift for Paul flying was very satisfying.

"What was that for?"

"Funny," were his means of justification- George surveyed John with a fleeting but judgemental and sickeningly _knowing_ look in his eyes, spiking a nauseous _he knows what you're doing John he knows exactly what you're doing_ , even though John wasn't ready to either face up to what he was doing or understand what he was doing in the first place, but that was that and soon George's cheeks were glowing again.

"Anyway, what _did_ make you change your mind?"

"About what?"

"That boy?"

"Felt sorry for the lad. You'll never guess what his name is."

George groaned. "I swear to god, if it's fucking _Paul-_ "

John hit George with the back of his hand. "No, it wasn't _Paul_. It was John."

 _"No,_ " George held his hand to John's and widened his eyes in feigned disbelief, an intended reference to the way middle-aged mothers would gossip.

"Was it practice?" John was too drunk to stiffen at the mention of his unborn child.

"Less' go with that, son."

"Could see the resemblance, between you and little John. Could pass as his father."

"Nah, thought he looked more like you. Had wonky teeth and one eyebrow. Spitting image of my George Harrison."

"Kid had _no_ eyebrows and no teeth!"

"Could still be our son, though."

George laughed and threw back his head. "We'd make the perfect nuclear family, John. A kid, a dog, and you, the image of womanly beauty." George gestured to John's body and winked.

John nodded to his own bum, nodding and squinting his eyes. "It is quite big, isn't it?"

George played along, nodding and squinting in John fashion, leaning his face closer to John's before it became a mini competition- who could appear more threatening without laughing himself, each acting his best _oh yeah_? face. George, of course, lost, picking up his glass and hiding behind it as if shielding himself from John's triumph at winning.

"Get us another, son," John pushed his glass toward George. 

He watched him as he walked up to the bar, unable to knock the _really fucking daft_ smile of his own face. _Fond, you're quite fond of him_. John wasn't sure if he'd ever used the word fond to describe another person, let alone himself.

"Are you worn out yet?" John was snapped out of his little reverie by George placing another pint on the table, letting a bit of the froth dribble over the edge of the glass

"Go on, wear me out, son," must've been really funny reply, because George was laughing again and covering his face with his hands, before edging his chair around the table over the wooden floor to sit next to John, making the crucial mistake of _not actually getting of his chair_ whilst he hoisted it, making it scrape against the floor. 

_George's shoulders are touching mine and this is exciting_. He blamed it on a wasted sex drive.

George leaned his head on John's shoulder, looking up at him upside down. John was hot, and it reminded him exactly why he gave his coat away earlier on. He smiled down at George, leaning closer to him, so that he could feel his breath on his cheek.

George raised his hand in front of him. "John?"

"George."

"Can I ask you something?" 

John was warm- not unbearably so, but it was intense enough to make him forget that he couldn't stay like this forever, that in 3 hours he and George would be asleep in separate beds. The boisterous and loud atmosphere was wafted away as soon as George had leaned on John; his voice was softer and more gentle and quite lovely, matching that of one which was about to confess something. The question so simple, yet exciting and really fucking scary. If George noticed John's breath hitch, he paid no notice, head still firmly perched on John's shoulder.

"What's going on between you an', an' Paul?"

John laughed off the question. _What a silly boy._ "What?"

"You and Paul. What do you do?"

The obvious implications of the question dawned on John, chilling him right to the bone. He began to sit up, finding both he and George had really been slouching on each other, as if they were sleeping together.

" _What_?”

"I just thought I'd be allowed to know, that you and Paul are-"

"Fucking _what_ , son?" John all but growled, grabbing the collar of George's shirt.

George looked nothing like the boy he did a minute ago. His face was an aching red, although John tried to reason that it was because of the harsh warm lights outside. _He isn't angry, he's not mad. He loves you, he's just playing._ George maintained terrible eye contact; John had to remind himself he was older and he was their leader.

"Are you calling me a fucking _queer_ , boy?" John spat in George's face, his grip tightening on George.

"You're so fucking possessive of him. I talk about Paul and then you're fucking off your nut!" then, more quietly, "I just thought you'd let me know, John."

John was speechless, his alcohol fuddled brain offering him nothing but hit him, _go on hit him and look at him, he's actually quite beautiful, him, I think you love him._

John stood up and yanked his coat that George had been sitting on before socking him square on his jaw. George raised his hand in what John thought was an act of retaliation, _go on, slap me, love,_ which turned out to instead be George's attempt to alleviate the pain. George's bravado was gone, all his pretenses were down. He clearly couldn't raise his head enough to look at John so that his eyes were level; instead he could only look up at him, his lips all trembling. He seemed disbelieving, and in his look, John could tell that in that moment, George knew him no more than he had 7 years ago, a superior but not at all a friend he loved.

John turned on his foot and stormed out of the tavern, before George and his _stupid fucking stare_ could make him feel something any longer.

He didn't know _exactly_ where he was, he just figured that he could make his way back to the hotel by following the ghost trail backwards. Common sense told him this was a stupid idea, but he'd have to speak to George to get home another way since the fucker was _very well acquainted_ with that pub.

He passed a building that the tour guide had wittered on about when he was talking to younger Johnny, impressed by his recall despite never acknowledging the place when he was there. John remembered something about _the little ones who died from tuberculosis being here. Being buried here, John. They're not here._

_Neither is he._

It was freezing, colder than usual even for January; John was grateful for taking his coat back, _taking your coat off of George, he's got no coat._

_Probably fucking that tart, I bet he's warm alright._

In all honesty, John hadn't ever been out this late on his own, and he hadn't expected George to take this long catching up with him. _Fuck him, let's see if he's the man he pretends to be. See if he's not beaten to death by any of these Yorkshire sociopaths,_ a thought so heavy that he flinched at his own musings.

John went to fish for a book out of his pocket, _The Tell-Tale Heart_ being the only one present, which he quite reasonably chucked straight behind his back, _not the time John, not the time!_ , before turning on his heel and rushing back to get it, a familiar uneasiness telling him that he'd hurt someone who wasn't really there by throwing that book at them. He winced as he shoved it back in his pocket.

Quite logically, there weren't many people out, save for a few young men getting pissed on the streets, together and happy and laughing. 

_Squirming, look at her writhing, she's horrible_. 

John thought back to the Hamburg days, watching that piss poor horror film with George, getting George to share his bed, promising himself he'd never do it again, sobbing into George's shoulder in guilt and fear and hatred, promising himself he'd never do it again, waking up with George wrapped around him and shrugging him off so none of the other boys would notice, promising himself he'd never do it again and teasing George in front of the band the next day. 

_The fucker's playing mind games with you, John. He should be here so you can punch him again. He really shouldn't be by himself, he should be here._

Walking past the old hotel, John saw the dead conscript looking at him. He had dark hair and darker eyes and was very radiating, save for the fact that he was dying, _he's screaming and he's writhing and oh! and he's dead, a bullet through the skull, just under his eye._

John thought back to the young couple, the way she'd been hanging onto her boyfriend's arm, much like the way his absent friend had been earlier on. He needed that warmth again.

_"Wanged a macca at t'teacher once!"_

Paul- he was supposed to be sharing with Paul tonight. He was supposed to be in the bed next to Paul's, and George and Ringo were supposed to be in the room next door. If he were to close his eyes, he would probably be able to simulate just that, he'd be able to feel warm like he had all night, only the man was staring at him.

John would pity himself were he not so distracted in maintaining a _fucking steady heartbeat._

_He's still looking at you, look, he has to tell you something, look at his eyes._

John never thought he'd envy the pretty dark eyes of a dead man.

_Oh, but he's not really dead, you know exactly who he is John. He's okay, you just need to help him._

He was shot again, right before John's eyes, except not really, this time it looked as if he was being beaten to death, looking at John with distant but oh so familiar eyes.

John was sick all over the pavement. It was a truly woeful show, really, because John tried to crouch but was way too wobbly, falling backwards so that his wrists cracked against the pavement all whilst he was retching and his eyes were watering wet tracks down his cheeks, which he wiped with the sleeves of his coat.

He raised his head to look at the soldier who wasn't really there, ready to prostrate himself as a form of submission; a sacrifice to ensure that _he'd be safe,_ only John was alone again, save for a cat that was thick enough to be walking out while it was snowing.

_It's snowing, John, look!_

_He doesn't have a coat, oh, he's going to be so cold, he doesn't have a coat John, he really doesn't. You took it off him._

John rested his head on his knees, using his coat as a pillow; _it smells a little like George_. He clutched the sleeve of it to his nose and sobbed his sorry little heart out.  
\---------------------------------------------------------

John had been sick three more times by the time he got back to the hotel. He had kept his eyes glued firmly to the pavement and his fingers in his ears as he walked back, to avoid any communication with the _not_ dead. He had neither the sobriety nor the will to sort out his appearance- he really did look dreadful, catching site of himself in the window of a house coming up to the hotel- his eyes were puffy and very obviously still leaking, and he’d taken on an ashen grey tone. _It won’t be worse than how he looks._

On the path up to the hotel John began to run, ignorant of the fact he couldn’t keep his footing- he was vaguely conscious of the palms of his hands hitting the gravel every now and again. He didn’t smile at the hotel staff as he scampered past the desk. 

Four doors away from his and George’s room, John raised a trembling hand to knock on the wood. _Don’t be silly, John, it’s not your room at all._ A strong arm snaked it’s away around his waist, pulling him abruptly backwards before he could make it to his room; John let out a surprised gasp that cracked in grief.

“Don’t, John,” John turned around to the solace of Ringo’s voice.

“Oh, Ritchie, is he in there? Is he in there, alright? Did he come back? Oh, Ringo-“ John through coherence to the wind, tripping over his words.

“John.”

“What did he tell you? Is Georgie okay, is he, is he with Paul?”

“John.”

“He told you everything, didn’t he? Did he tell you exactly what happened? Oh, Ritchie-“

Ringo clasped John’s hands in his own; John flinched with the firmness and assertion of the action, especially since it was Ringo.  
_You’re the devil John, you really are in trouble._

“He’s fine. Had a bleeding nose, but didn’t tell us anything. Do you know what happened to him?” John nodded miserably, and if the look on Ringo’s face was anything to go by, he clearly thought he owed it to his friend not to delve, seeing him furiously rub at his eyes with his knuckles, probably more painful and more aggressive than something as soft as wiping tears away ought to be.

“He’s sharing with Paul, tonight. He’ll be alright, John.”

_Paul’s his solace Paul is his solace Paul is lovely and kind and George trusts him because he loves him and doesn’t hit him and oh-_

“Can I see him? Can I see them?” John made his way forward, but the look Ringo shot him was so anchored and so unshakable that John could only nod bitterly, letting Ringo’s hand on his back steer him toward the room they were going to share.

Ringo turned the lights off as soon as they both stepped forward into the room, saying nothing when John collapsed straight into his bed, burying his face underneath the pillow.

_They’re probably sharing a bed, and Georgie cuddles in his sleep, but it’s okay because they protect each other and look after each other and oh, do they love each other-_

_The epitome of success and class, John Lennon is dribbling and crying into his bed sheets in the horrifying revelation that he’d prompted George to feel that way about him and Paul only to have George’s blood on his hands later on, because he got the rush off of George feeling inadequate for John or jealous of a partnership he wasn’t apart of._

John resisted every urge to throw his arms around George’s neck and kiss his whole face in apology when George couldn’t meet his eyes the next day at breakfast. He flinched every time John reached to get something


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During the filming of _Help!_ in Obertraun, Austria.

On another occasion, John was watching George. Pattie was plaiting his hair, scolding him every now and again, at one point getting so “frustrated” with the man she was in love with that she screwed up her face and rested her chin atop his head, her performance a whole flop when he grinned at her in his reflection, _poetic, that, i’nt it? making goo goo eyes at each other through a mirror_. John felt he ought to have turned away, were it not for the few seconds of eye contact George made with him through said mirror, sticking his tongue out at him. 

It felt intrusive, despite being so very, very soft. He knew he was out staying his welcome, given that Paul had left a little bit ago and, in all honesty, he hated every single second of it, but George would smile at him every now and again, so John was content, save for the fact he wasn’t at all (in fact, it would probably be safe to say that he was actively _dissatisfied_ with George’s present happiness, it wasn’t mere indifference or nonchalance to his friend’s feelings), because George and Pattie were absolutely _inseparable_ these days( _’part from all the time he spends with us every waking day touring and playing_ , Paul had always so _rudely_ reminded him whenever he lamented about his bandmates _abandoning him! I swear, I never did this with Cyn!_. Paul would always tap him on the nose to tell him off). 

George, at one point, pretended to cry as if Pattie was his mother scolding him; John wasn’t aware that Pattie had said anything at all. 

Pattie. Pattie was lovely. She had big eyes and big teeth and always found things funny; she’d giggle playfully and was really quite cute, even cuter than their little _George_ , but whenever she spoke, it was similar to the way teachers or parents spoke in the _Peanuts_ television specials to John, yet she was so eloquent and articulate that it baffled him as to why he could so rarely acknowledge at all what she was saying, it was as if he was on a completely different plane of existence to Pattie; nothing she said or did was of any strikingness to John, which was, frankly, something George had in abundance. _George could do with someone more striking, more exciting. Someone who knew him well, but not enough to not be fascinated or enthralled by him_.

It still seemed weird that Paul and George had met Pattie and Jane through fame. He didn’t question either of the girls’ genuineness, but it seemed wrong. They were far from Mo and Cyn, with their own considerable pay checks- _far_ from hairdressers and artists. Then again, the girls in Liverpool were far from being okay for George. But maybe a few would be alright. Maybe George should’ve considered a bird he knew from Liverpool, on condition she knew him really well. Maybe he should’ve considered someone from Liverpool. Maybe.

John turned back to George. _They might as well be fucking_ for how prying John felt, but, if George was at all bothered by John, he made no effort to show it. And when Pattie beckoned him to hold George’s hair whilst she went to _find a hair band_ or something, John took it gladly, doing that little thing he’d seen hairdressers do with birds when they’d finished and tugged at the ends of their hair, sifting through the strands with his thumb and finger.

“Oh, aren’t you cute, like,” George grinned up at him, uncharacteristically smiley for how early they had had to wake up for filming- they’d arrived at Austria only a day ago, and the schedule was surprisingly relaxed, but the rogue early morning was jarring and put them all off a little bit. “Hair’s getting too long, though, son. Sales are gonna plummet, fans wouldn’t like a girl in the band.”

“‘M threatening, am I?”

“Less go with that, ay?”

Some of the natives _had_ thought the Beatles to be girls, with their long( _long? it was long, yeah, for a man, but it didn’t touch their shoulders. Girls, though. Really?_ ) and dark hair, all locked away from Beatlemania up in the mountains.

“Would be nice, wouldn’t it?” John said.

“What would?”

“Being up here,” George frowned up at John, and John knew exactly what he was getting at. “Not like that, not like that,” John shook his head- fantasising about a life outside of everything they’d earned for themselves was often out of bounds; it was lovely but always seemed a little bit crueller if you were talking about it to George. He got on, sure, he was happy, but it was hard to miss how tired he was. It was one of those things where, if you were in a good mood you could set yourself another 10 years of doing it, but after the first show of the tour came, you were back at square one; it was simultaneously empowering and so, so discouraging. John and George had bonded over that, but it was George’s disillusionment that was a curse to both himself and John. “It’s just nice, yeah?”

George keened his head to the side to consider it for a moment. “Nice cheese. I could definitely do it.” John laughed through his nose. “Seen some weird animals too, they’re quite cute.”

“You’d stay because of the _animals_? You’ve gone soft, pet.”

“Think a cat would be nice, though.”

John pretended to cry, voice all squeaky. “Thought we were going to get a dog, George.” Said George cocked his head in confusion. It stung a little more than it should have, he supposed. John shook his head. “Nevermind.”

“I think a penguin could live here. Could drag it from the North Pole.”

John shook his head again. “‘S the other one.”

“South!”

“There we go.” John flashed him a congratulatory grin, and they were silent again. It wasn’t awkward, silence was comfy between the two, but talking was nice and talking to George was fucking _lovely_ , to John’s distress. 

George’s hand inched backward a little before bunching up. He had picked up a little habit of tracing things on his index finger, with his thumb. At first, John thought it was George merely fiddling, but after he’d seen George’s thumb move once in an undeniable _Paul poorly_ motion after Paul was, well, poorly one time during an interview, John realised it was _words_ he was writing. Now, everytime George was back scribbling a message with his thumbnail on his finger that no one could read, John peeked over his shoulder to try and decipher it. He could ask, but it would seem too creepy; that was George’s, it wasn’t his. _Not enough to make you turn away!_

“I reckon you could keep a penguin in Liverpool, though, fucking freezing.”

“There was some in Chester zoo, though.”

“Geriatric and fat, mind.”

“You remember them?”

“Course I do, son, course I do.”

“I just didn’t think that’d be John Lennon’s scene, y’know.”

John screwed up his face. “Someone once told me that they thought they’d have to eat ‘em in the war.”

“Wha’s that got to do with anything?”

“Dunno. Just some food for thought.” The unintentional wordplay rolled off his tongue.

George mock-gasped. “ _John!_ ” John went to raise his hands to surrender, which were bound by holding George’s hair, so he opted for an exaggerated shrug, giving George’s strands a little tug.

“The George I know would have _no_ objection to eating a toucan.”

“Yer calling me _fat_.”

“I said nothing of the sort.”

“It’s cause ‘m the buffest beatle,” the word ‘beatle’ still sounded a little alien and awkward off George’s tongue; with it came the dizzying realisation that he hadn’t said it in a long time.

“ _Please_ ,” George responded by waving his hand in the air. John bit his finger.

“No I am, I swear. Could take on anyone.”

“A gladiator, yeah?”

George beamed. “Exactly.”

“Take on a lion.”

“Maybe the Chester zoo ones.”

“ _Anyone_ could take on the Chester zoo ones.”

“But ‘specially me,” John shook his head fondly at George, meeting his eyes once again through the mirror.

“They were always my favourite, though, so you know who I’d be backing.” 

George pretended to cry again. “After everything I’ve given you.”

John froze. _With such an air of casualness, as well_. John frowned. George had no idea what he was talking about. He’d given John _nothing_ , and it was his carelessness and utter nonchalance that made John suddenly see red. George had given him nothing. Zilch. George hadn’t given him what he wanted. George knew what John wanted, though John himself didn’t, and yet he refused him. _He’s acting as if you owe him_. John’s little brain could judge nothing but _George’s selfish he’s selfish_ , because John couldn’t kick George out the band anymore, no, John had _let_ George in his little band, and all George could do was fucking _sit_ there and joke and laugh with John as if John _liked_ him and wanted to listen to him. George wasn’t phased by it, nor did he look guilty, looking frankly _ridiculous_ with his slightly-outgrown mop top and the cuffs of the sleeves of his shirt on his hands instead of his wrists even though it was _no where near_ too big for his lanky arms, he was really just stretching the cotton as much as inelastic cotton could stretch. _He fucking does it on purpose_. How _dare_ he.

John was so fucking _furious_ at George that he tightened his grip on George’s hair and bunched both plaits together in one hand, freeing the other so that he could stroke the top of George’s mop. Just like that. Like George was a fucking _puppy_. George laughed again.

“Of course the fucking _lions_ were your favourite. Couldn’t be a fucking otter or something, had to be the lion.” _Again! The boy has the emotional intelligence of Julian! He can’t see what’s wrong, he won’t try and make you feel alright again. He won’t give you what you want!_.

John’s eyes focused back on George; John knew, quite insightfully, that he wouldn’t be able to face himself if he looked at himself in the mirror. It wasn’t something he would ever be ready for, so he kept his eyes glued right on George. George leaned his head back, exposing his neck and his chin and his _fucking jaw what the fuck_ , to look up at John, letting John’s fingers slide against his scalp in the process. John hesitated a little, but acquiesced when George leaned back into his fingers, his eyes half lidded and looking more relaxed than he had in weeks.

Save for desperately trying to decipher what George was tracing on his hand, John’s mind was blissfully blank, as if it was _him_ being caressed. _Caressed? You’ve gone soft, John._ John mumbled a half angry, half confused _fucking hell_ , quiet enough so that George couldn’t hear.

But there was something absolutely _magnifying_ about holding the entirety of the weight of George’s head in his hand. George was there, and trusted John enough to let John be able to literally _control_ him; if John pushed his fingers up, George’s head would bob upwards, if he tugged his hair backwards, George’s head would go backwards, and if he did this thing where he circled his fingers George would sigh, doing bluntly _horrible_ things to John. John was sure he hadn’t ever felt such a sensation in his life; it was so, so _unbelievably_ hot.

“In Hamburg.”

John blinked, so suddenly that he forgot about his attempted abstinence at not looking at his reflection in the mirror, all wide-eyed and flushed. “Hm?”

George wiped at his forehead, before smiling into his hand. “When we spoke about our dog.”

John nodded, really nodded, suppressing a little excited gasp with no success. “That’s it,” He all but whispered, “That’s it, George.” He leaned his chin atop George’s head much like Pattie had done earlier, before spidering his fingers down to George’s chin, steering it a little backward, all whilst keeping his plaits in position with his thumbs. George didn’t make eye contact, but let out a breathless laugh, lifting both of his hands up to brush against John’s fingernails. John released a shaky breath he didn’t know he was holding.

It was George’s turn to sigh when John leaned forward on George’s head. John considered saying George’s name so that George would look at him but the idea of _talking_ was sacrilegious by that point, it would break it. 

John didn’t have time to berate himself because George looked in the mirror to John, most of his face concealed by his hand that he was resting on. They made a few seconds of eye contact through the mirror, like Pattie and George had done, _oh, like Pattie and George had done_. John leaned down to inhale right above the shell of George’s ear, smelling of all snow and smoke and _George_ , so much George that it _hurt_.  
He loved him a little bit, then, and-

Pattie giggled from outside the door. John shot up and kicked the chair George was on straight ahead of him, perhaps a little too aggressively given that George’s chest rammed right into the table, but it did the trick. John opted for turning his head right towards the window, whilst George looked straight at his girlfriend. John yawned before picking at his fingernails, realising quite dizzyingly that his hands were completely vacant. He turned back to look towards Pattie and _Cyn? Cyn’s here?_

Pattie dramatically pulled on her own hair and raised her hands in a _why do I even bother_ manner, turning on her heel to walk straight back out the door. Although a joke, John felt like he would suffocate if Pattie left him with George and Cyn. _If Pattie left you? Pathetic._

He received his just earful from Cyn and Pattie( _even George, the little prick, turned round to tsk tsk at him_ ). John must’ve looked ridiculous, still wide eyed and red, but it wasn’t anything Cyn couldn’t pick up on.

“You alright, John?” John nodded his head, staring at George once more as if to say _that’s you who should be asking me that, it’s you who owes me_. George smirked at him; John stiffened.

“Think ‘m gonna turn in now,” and John was on his way to the door, kissing Cyn on the cheek in the process.

“N’night, John,” John didn’t turn around to acknowledge George, merely giving a noncommittal hum, making the crucial mistake of _not actually opening_ the door before he tried to walk out of it.

He wanted to storm back in after hearing a muffled _maybe he’s just jet lagged?_ and an equally confused _with the time zone difference of an hour?_.

Later, John tried to see how much of his toothbrush he could shove down his throat, when no one was looking. It sufficed.

—————————————————————

The filming, truth be told, was nice. It was a drag, because sincerely the prospect of _John Lennon being fucking bossed around_ was a concept alien to them all (said concept in fact so _very_ alien that it made Paul _fucking-McCartney_ snort every time John was yelled at by an assistant), yet it was quiet- if he wanted to, John could open a window, and hear nothing but scuttling or air- it was hard to put his finger on it, the sound of the outside, the sound of absolutely nothing at all, and it was those times that the screaming made no sense. Sometimes, before a show, Paul would talk to George and John and try his absolute hardest to convince them of ‘ _the point_ ’ as duly named, and they’d nod, George would glance at John and they’d both grant a little _yeah, alright,_ of affirmation, despite how terribly John wanted to hit him for complaining of something they _all_ had to go through. George was frustrating, to say the least. 

_Frustrating. It’s much easier when you put it like that,_ because, truly, enough could be said about John himself, but George’s constant reluctance and defiance was enough to make anyone tear their hair out, because he could look you in the eye, and shrug so quietly and so indifferently yet with his whole body too; an enigma in itself which John would have to reflect on for a little, at how _fucking shrugging_ could be so shy and small yet decisive and bold and _shameless_ ; it was what made George and Paul so strikingly different that it was a surprise they could ever really get on, with Paul’s addiction to being liked and being nice and being the _favourite_. George would argue that it was nothing to do with being sensitive; instead it was a way to cut corners. _Sneaky_ , he’d once hissed at Paul during a particularly nasty clash (they’d all said much worse things to each other at some point, only nothing had been spat with quite the same fire).

Thus it was truly hard to see what George and Paul found in each other, for _ten whole years_.  
Paul’s superiority complex: he’d deny it as such, complaining that he ‘didn’t think he was better than anyone else’, as if the falseness lay in the word ‘superiority’, but John well knew that Paul’s real problem would lie in the word ‘complex’, because, of all the _good_ qualities you could attribute Paul, egocentrism stuck out as his worst _bad_ trait. Paul easily believed himself to be the best, but there was something so entertaining in pretending it was all in his head that gave John the oh-so-necessary laugh. And as for George’s _almost_ newfound songwriting ability, they ignored that, for the most part. They’d never really discussed it, save for Paul shrugging the one time John had said _it’s not all that bad, you know_. He didn’t mean that. Not really, since George was nowhere near as close as John and Paul. He didn’t have the capabilities, nor would he ever. Quashing George creatively didn’t count as such, because it was bound to happen anyway- yeah. Yeah.

Still somehow, you could see a genuine love in all their glares and scowls, because despite George’s apparent intolerance of Paul, there seemed something so sincere between those two that John had to stamp it with ‘brotherly’ so that it almost became a mantra if he ever saw them interact. Under that label, he could smile, almost wistfully, at them, without seeing red. He could often see Paul, with all the willpower in the world, sort-of lean back into George in an interview, subtly enough to not be visible, but enough to make John’s skin tingle. And George, with all the gentleness in the world, would adjust his shoulder for the same contact. It was awful.

And if George ‘loved’ all of his bandmates, Ringo was, undoubtedly, the only one he _liked_. He’d piggyback him and laugh with him all friendly and happy, offering nearly nothing to a vis-á-vis conversation with John or Paul, except for fucking _cars_. 

John could never acknowledge this as far as to think about it, or try and work it out, because George giving as little time as possible to someone he could almost never be separated from was heart wrenching, as if he couldn’t even _try_ to suck it up and talk with John, maybe, God forbid, even _smile_ , not a smirk or even a grin but a fucking _smile_. And still, John would find himself agreeing to everything George asked him to without really acknowledging, a habit he’d picked up as long ago as Hamburg, never properly nodding, but shrugging. 

_Acquiesce? You comply?_

His interaction with George the other day didn’t leave him out of sorts for as long as he didn’t think about it. Besides, it’s never like he’d get a peep out of George about it anyway, yet after it happened, John felt some school-boy need to tell someone, like girls did, all flapping their arms and giggling to each other, but instead he hushed about it, or, maybe, really _tried_ to.

“Have y’ noticed he doesn’t talk to me?”

Paul and Ritch rolled their eyes almost completely in sync, almost endearingly, before looking at each other knowingly, with Paul even _tsk tsk_ ing and John’s almost exceptional ability to complain about _anything_ , to find _something_ he could deem unjustly unfair to him. 

Ringo patted John’s head. “Who’s not talking to ye this time, chick?”

John raised an accusatory index finger pointing right toward a flushed and giggly Pattie sitting half on the lap of an equally flushed and giggly George. John had to squint to see them anyway, but perhaps the unintended glare worked too. Unintended, that is.

Paul raised an eyebrow. “Pattie?”

“No, _him_ ” John glared a bit more.

“Fucking _who_?”

“ _George_ ,” Johns voice was all a harsh whisper, half impatient and half _bitter you’re still fucking bitter_.

Paul and Ringo spoke simultaneously. “As in _our_ George? Like George George?”

“What, Georgie?”

John sunk back further into his chair, being all too high to give a fuck about the dangers of beginning to voice all this, voice everything he’d been thinking for the last _fuck, how long now? how long since he stopped following you round like a puppy? 3, maybe 4 years? or did he ever really at all?_

_Don’t fucking lie. I waved, did y’see me, John? Cyn? I waved but I don’t think y’saw me. Where we going?_

_He’s adorable, let him come with us. Just for one film._

John must have shrugged at the time, not a very John-move, mind, especially to Cyn.

“Are you _joking_?” Paul asked, a little aggressively.

John sat up, almost accusingly but half defensively which ultimately must have manifested into some kind of weak confusion, almost helpless, given that Paul’s brow only furrowed more.

Ringo leaned back in his chair, covering his eyes with his hands. “Is this another one of those _things_ , John?”

John looked even more confused. “Things?”

Paul and Ringo smirked at each other, before shifting their chairs closer to John, sandwiching him but with their legs turned out slightly so that the trio could still resemble a circle. 

Paul put his elbows on his knees, pointing out a finger toward John, his hand expressions indicating he was saying something very important whilst not saying anything at all. 

_Fucking Dad-ish_ , or at least what John would imagine to be dad-ish. _Maybe more drunk uncle?_  
John rolled his eyes fondly. 

“ _Y’orite, son_?”

John shoved his hand into Paul’s face, to said-Uncle Paul’s dismay, earning him a quick slap on the hand and a disciplinary glare, or rather as much of a glare as baby faced Paul could muster, and, not dissimilar to almost every reaction Paul provoked in anyone, John’s brain offered just a fleeting flash of the word _adorable_.

“Y’know who you sound like, son?”

John cocked an eyebrow. “G’on, tell me.”

Paul beckoned John in a come-hither motion, all fun and games until John realised what the daft fucker was _actually insinuating_.

“ _No fucking way_.”

“C’mon son, it’s been too long.”

Ringo involved himself at this point, shaking his head in a teacher way, clicking his fingers at Paul’s lap with a _Come on John! Don’t disobey!_

John flipped them both off before begrudgingly plopping himself on Paul’s lap, kicking his chair halfway across the floor in a strop in the least subtle way possible, so that even his fourth fellow bandmate earned himself a glare as he laughed at John, his face all glowing and sparkly. 

Paul must’ve noticed something about this interaction, because he clicked his fingers and scratched his head. He squinted his eyes at John, pointing his finger at him in an _I’m onto something, I’m onto something_ motion, saying _nothing_.

“You remind me of someone.”

John stood unconvinced. “Go on.”

Paul laughed again. “Y’really not gonna like it.”

“Really?”

Paul smirked, clearly trying to adopt a pseudo-George persona by saying _fucking nothing_ but lacking the quite quintessential George indifference, so instead it manifested itself as him laughing and regaining his composure every few seconds. John looked to Ringo to try and exchange a mutual glare at Paul’s rabbitting, but Ringo laughed straight with Paul, a frankly quite fucking _horrifying_ pair.

“ _Paul!_ ”

Paul pulled his best _hm?_ face, as if he’d not been teasing John at all.

“Who?”

Paul laughed again, clearly rinsing this fucking _film scene_ as much as possible before taking John’s hand and erecting his index finger, pointing it at John before dramatically rotating it and placing it on his own chest.

John let his finger trail down Paul’s jumper. 

It must’ve taken John a little while to clock on to what Paul was actually saying, because he sat there, looking at Paul with wide eyes, perhaps a little too wide for _reallyquitefragile_ John.

“Don’t say his name.”

“He was in _our_ band.”

“He _was_.”

Now, really, this could’ve upset John, but he frequently found Paul the most _annoying_ person to argue with because he was _exceptionally_ dramatic, which many who didn’t know him thought they could grasp, but the reality was far from what most believed.

John rested his head on his index fingers in a way that looked like he was praying. “This _boy_ oh my God!” John got up perhaps as exaggeratedly as Paul had put John’s finger on his chest, muttering a _not doing this, not doing this girls_ to two baffled looking Austrian maids.

But it was on his way out when he realised he was cleverer than that, before the dizzying realisation of what Paul was actually saying made his head spin, half with disapproval and half with straight obnoxiousness. He turned straight on his heel.

“ _Fuck off_ ,” John reapproached Paul (reapproached puts it too nicely, maybe), all whilst Ringo caught on to the actual essence of the conversation.

“Sixteen year-old Paul isn’t a good look for a man of 25, John.”

Before John could even respond, Ringo beat him to it, only not actually responding at all. “Did John say George doesn’t _speak_ to him?”

Ringo’s slowness was both a blessing and a curse, because whilst being incredibly insightful and really quite emotionally intelligent, he was, in every sense of the word, _simple_. As cute as it was, John and Paul seemed already deep in something it would be hard to get out of, with Paul’s real lack of tact. 

“ _He doesn’t! I was just saying that!_ ”

Ringo still appeared dumbfounded. “ _George?_ ”

Said George turned around, mistaking a John bitching session for a summon. The other three, completely indubiously turned to face him at the _same fucking time_ to offer him a completely normal and chummy smile, Paul even throwing in a little finger wave to both him and Pattie. George rolled his eyes and pulled Pattie closer to him. John spilt a little wine.

“You’re both terrible.”

“Me? It’s on Paul.”

Paul clearly didn’t take the double accusation very lightly, because he shoved John’s face back with his hand.

Ringo shook his head. “I have to say though, ‘m team Paul here.”

Paul smiled smugly, while poor John glowered at Ringo, more helpless than angry. “What the _fuck_ is team Paul? He hasn’t even said anything!”

“Team Paul is that John’s wrong.”

“In that case I’m _always_ team Paul.”

John flipped Ringo off.

“George spends all his time with you!”

“He spends all his time with _us_ ” John protested.

Ringo looked to Paul. “I can’t tell if he’s being serious or not,” sounding genuinely exasperated.

“Can you both shut the fuck up? He’ll hear us,” and then, a few seconds later, “he _doesn’t_ ,” with a little more persistence this time.

And it’s then John felt as slow as Ringo because Paul had just compared him to fucking _Paul_ , a comparison that would truly never sit right with John but especially not _now_ , but it figured really, John’s little realisation, as it coincided right with Paul turning to explain to Ringo, quite self-righteously, that John had a father complex, and couldn’t handle George having a life outside of John’s supposed passed down expertise that never really existed, that was historically quite the _opposite_ , with John looking wide eyed at chords, and finger picking technique taught to him by his supposed apprentice.

“Mhm... No. No, not enough to look after him, only enough to look down on him…. Yeah, before you came.”

John thought he would choke. There was something so weird about it, and he found himself thinking, _why did that happen so fast_ , even though, in actuality, Paul had only _said_ something, but John was almost looking as if he himself had been _hurt_ , because he was literally trying not to choke, and _fucking hell he didn’t even say anything fuck,_ that _you really should’ve seen this coming, it wouldn’t have gone any other way_ , because when Paul and John started at all raising their voices these days it would always end like this, but no, this time it was about 10 feet away from them and fucking John himself.

Ringo only blinked, hesitating to make eye contact with John and Paul, instead suiting to just staring at the floor. Turning round in his chair, the _coup-de-grace_ if you will, Paul was not of the same mindset as Ringo, and instead looked straight at him, _into_ him, even, face only lit by a smirk and a horrifying insightfulness that John wasn’t sure possible.

Safe to say, John was angry quite a lot of the time, but this one was a horrible sharp fury that pooled in his belly, 

Despite his name being disparaged in such a way he wasn’t sure Paul had ever done before, his anger resembled more that of a school girl than a man with almost perpetually high testosterone. He spoke first.

“It’s not fucking like that!”

Paul smiled. “What’s it like then, John?”

John was still seething. _Turn it onto Paul_. 

“You’d never say that about George when it actually _mattered_.”

“I didn’t.”

“ _Exactly_!”

“‘S ‘cause I wanted to be your favourite.”

The admission was startling, but always almost acknowledged, just silently. John looked down at the floor for a moment. _It’s OK, you’re all drunk enough for this conversation._

“That read easily. I’m no you, Paul.”

Paul cocked his head, cheekily. “Hm?”

“It’s not like that.”

Paul carried on. “I must’ve sounded desperate all the time, eh?”

It was true- Paul used to _loathe_ Stu for no other reason than being John’s best friend, which, even piss drunk Paul had the tact and decorum to omit. But it _wasn’t_ like that, it wasn’t like Paul wanting John’s attention because it was something else entirely.

John must’ve been speaking the last part aloud because Paul smiled again, which John vowed if he ever had to see again that night he’d off himself. 

“Then what _is_ it like, Johnny?”

John froze. He couldn’t look at Paul and his fucking pompous grin, because if he did he _just fucking can’t you just fucking can’t_.

But anger always came quickly to John, and, even after faltering, it returned even more quickly.

“I’m not desperate. I don’t beg for anyone’s attention.”

“Then what was-“

“It’s nothing,” John all but whispered, still spitting and aggressive but with no bravado of power.

An unsatisfying conclusion, really. The thought of that was more comforting than not. _You haven't actually said anything. You didn’t say anything._

He truly hadn’t said anything, no admissions, but Ringo got up of his seat and gave John a hug, completely uncalled for in a situation where John _hadn’t fucking said anything you didn’t say a word_.

John stiffened, pushing Ringo off him, shaking his head in a proud kind of poodle way.

Paul, for the first time that night, dropped his smirk and instead looked toward Ringo, trying to communicate, or rather, _ask_ something.

John laughed, on the verge of tears but never so intent on distracting. “Wish it was you two, who would ignore me, if I’m honest.”

Ringo smirked. “You want me to treat you like George does?”

Raising an eyebrow, John nodded and laughed, impressed at his _own_ ability to completely disperse any stiffness, an ability that never evidently came naturally to John. That happened quite a lot, these days- alcohol all making them really quite mean and scary (Paul would never _dream_ of accusing John in such a menacing way 2 years ago) but then have quite a rapid turnaround. Their ability to change moods so quickly ought to actually be quiet worrying, that they could, you know, _get used_ to being horrible to each other.

Ringo just pulled his chair closer to John, looking at the side of his face. 

John snorted. “ _Please_.”

“‘E does just that. Face hasn’t changed since he first met you,” Paul piped up, joining in, even, staring at the other side of John’s face.

John was ready to protest again, before he got a tap on his shoulder, as if his life was a fucking film. _Put this on Help!, why don’t you._.

 _Fuck this_ as Paul and Ringo smirked to each other as said George Harrison scooted a chair inbetween Ringo and John.

“Y’orite, son?”

George only nodded, visibly tensing at Ringo and Paul’s concealed giggles.

“Wha’s the matter?” Defensive George was a sight, with his very slim frame as wide as possible which was, to say the least, _very slim_ , and furrowed but _already naturally furrowed but a little_ more _furrowed_ eyebrows.

“Fine,” George slapped his knees and got up, John getting _cold and all that_.

“Geooooorge,” Paul whined, flapping his arms to get him to come back.

George looked to John, almost _asking_ , _asking fucking what_ , an interaction followed smugly by Paul. 

John wasn’t sure he’d _ever_ felt as awkward, and that even after all this was done and he’d got what he wanted it wouldn’t be worth it because he’d have to remember George’s little tap and Paul’s eyebrows. 

Still, John got up and shrugged, nodding George to come with him which, given, wasn’t the _best_ idea given the context, but ultimately, when him and George were out of the room Paul wasn’t there, and John would be able relax all the muscles in his body, only to tighten them again when Paul shouted after him _again_.

“ _Georgeeee_.”

George’s face softened a little. He glanced at John before going back to the little circle. John awkwardly followed. “ _Paulllll._ ”

Paul shoved a leaflet into George’s hand, smirking up at him. “Alf will take us.”

George grinned. “Never been.”

“Me neither.”

John had to stop himself glaring at the interaction. This, as much as it stung, was awfully commonplace. Usually, it was done in a more awkward fashion when they were sober, in which neither would know how to ask the other to do something with them. But they did it a lot, and nearly _always_ without John or Ringo. Normally, Paul would just mention a trip, or a day out, _kind of_ suggesting it to George, but only in a ‘ _don’t you like that actress, George?_. If it was George asking, he’d tell Paul something like, _oh, Mam asked if we’d been to the cinema here yet, like,_ and then, sure enough, George and Paul would be out for a day, and come back drunk with little stories about the cities they’d toured.

Usually, even Pattie and Jane weren’t invited. That _really_ fucked John off. It would be different if they were. Horribly different. 

Maybe John couldn’t hide his disdain this time. “Tha’s it then?”

He must’ve been glaring at them, because they both swivelled their heads round, Paul looking all _sassy_ and mean-girl ( _a gag, he knows, but still a pisstake_ ) and George offering a shrug.

“Where are you even going?”

George shrugged again. “Salzburg. ‘S like 2 hours from here.”

“ _Salzburg?_ ”

George fiddled with his fingers some more and looked to Paul. 

Another hair pulling moment. George couldn’t even say it with his chest. _You know, fuck, if George wanted to be considered a fucking adult, he wouldn’t follow Paul like an actual fucking father_.

“Boys,” _Boys. Perfect._ “I get a fucking _farmer’s market_ but _Salzburg_?”

George innocently offered a _you can come if you’d like_ , though, if he’d learned anything about John from all the time of knowing him, he would know that John would _never_ invite himself to something in that way, not out of a fear of being intrusive or going somewhere he wasn’t wanted, but from a place of sheer pride. At least, that’s what the other three would and should speculate, and John would remain satisfied if that was the pretext.

“Fuck, whatever.”

“You can come if you’d like, John!” Paul offered him a grin, and John had to turn away and mutter a _you two don’t even like each other_. 

_Fuck, one more peep out of that wretched Paul, and-_ but he cut his thoughts off because he’d been saying that about Paul for God knows how many years now and, as always, would never really do anything to his best friend. 

Apart from strangle him, like.  
—————————————————————

John didn’t even allow himself to think of George and Paul the next day. He and Ringo had a little smoke and a ski, Ringo nattering on and on about how saying something like _smoke and a ski_ was so entertaining and so casual, you know, _oh, just off for a smoke and a ski,_. Ringo was alarmingly lovable that John wasn’t sure it would be a thing he’d ever be able to take for granted. The day he wouldn’t just grin at Ringo’s loveliness would be his death day. 

In extension to not thinking about them, John tried his best to not talk to them either, but when George and Paul hurried in, telling John and Ringo they had a surprise for them, it wasn’t like he was about to _reject_ them really.

“We got our photos developed,” George giggled, telling Ringo how he’d insisted on not looking at them with Paul before the other two could see.

And so John, Paul, George, and Ringo each sat around a little table. They’d had a policy, even before they started getting _really_ big, that they’d have two cameras, one that they’d take photos on for whoever, but one that, strictly, only they could have the photos from- and, if there was one thing the boys took perhaps a _little_ too seriously, it was their private camera, all of them going as far to not show their wives (John had only broken it once, showing George’s mum a picture of him, George and Ringo).

“This,” Paul smirked, “is George serving in the Korean war,” he showed them a picture where George looked frankly miserable. There were few photos of George, fewer photos of him _smiling_ , but it was entertaining enough to see one of George looking as if his brother had died or something.

“John must’ve taken that one because it’s _shit_.” 

George earned himself a jab to the side for that, complaining that he was only telling the truth. He jabbed John back before lighting a blunt.

Ringo laughed. “We should play a game boys,” And Paul, with all the curiosity in the world, raised his little head.

“Sort out all the pictures of Paul, then all the pictures of-“

“Don’t say it.”

“-not Paul.”

They found that there were three more times more pictures of Paul than John, four more times more pictures of Paul than Ringo, and then George was so camera shy that it would be an ugly comparison, and Paul stopped them before they could work it out, mixing all the photos back together.

“Ain’t that cute, George and Paul!” John showed them one of the two in Copenhagen, a year and a bit ago( _God, have you really had this camera for that long_?), both excessively drunk; the photo mimicking one from Hamburg. 

George laughed. “‘S like that time someone gave Paul a baby.”

“ _How_ is it like that time someone gave me a baby?”

George just shrugged and tapped his nose, laughing of how he _wished_ he could see a photo of that instead, pre-fame when a flustered, red-faced mother handed Paul her son, as red as her, snapping a picture of him on insistence he was ‘the most beautiful man’ she’d ‘ever seen’. Paul getting handed actual _children_ on account of his beauty, was, alas something he’d have to get used to, a phenomenon that seemed only really a Paul-thing. 

“That wretched man enjoys it, I have to say.”

Paul opened his mouth to say something back to John and shut it just as quickly.

Ringo held up two of him and Paul, one from a year ago and one from yesterday. They were both really lovely photos, one from Ringo’s house and one from this hotel, but they usually tended to _avoid_ any parallel photos, since it hurt quite a lot to see that tiredness or greyness that only really emerged this year 

George tapped John’s shoulder as Ringo and Paul tried to contextualise the photos.

“You look nice in this one,” George grinned at him, showing him a picture of him and John in another nameless Southern town. 

Such a tender and cute interaction between the two that John’s hands shook as George handed him the photo, immobilised by such an intense feeling that John thought he might cry. In the photo, it may have been the most sincere smile they’d seen from George throughout all these photos, looking all glowy and sweet. When John looked back up at now George, there was a similar shine and, _what?_

“Really? You look dreadful,” which, in reality _could’ve_ been funny if, for one, he was just joking (at that moment John was never more sure of anything that that picture of George was possibly the worst, ugliest thing he’d ever seen) and, secondly, he was actually able to smile, because in his stupor he found all he could to was talk and let his hands tremble. 

George looked an uncharacteristic shade of grey, offering John a customary laugh that sounded more hollow than forced, tossing the photo back into the pile. 

John only really wallowed in this horrible concoction of guilt and embarrassment for the rest of the sort, convinced he’d not be able to move until George was gone. 

And that he did as _soon_ as the other three left, perhaps a little too enthusiastically snatching the photo George liked and stuffing it in his pocket before scampering off to the men’s. 

_If you don’t think about it, you’ll be okay_ , as he held up the photo before looking at himself in the mirror. 

He put on his glasses, titled them to the side a bit, titled them back to the centre. He held up the photo once more, before opting for a tiny bit skewed.

“Razor, razor-“ he trifled through a random wash bag (God knows whose), in such a hurry to shave the tiny bit of stubble with _still_ shaking hands that-

“ _Shit,_ ” and he’d sliced off a bit of his cheek, trying to alleviate the pain by what, _touching it?_

Despite the blood, he couldn’t really care, muttering a _green, green_ on his sprint back to his room. 

Sage, seaweed, even chartreuse, he had almost every shade of green _save_ for that weird muddy-army green, just his fucking luck really, with his clothes all chucked in random places. He hopped next door to Ringo’s room.

“‘Ere, Mo, has Ritch got any green shirts or jumpers or nowt?”

Mo blinked, before shaking her head a little and looking at what Ringo had hung up. She held a jumper up to her body, as if to model it, with her characteristic smirk. “This OK?”

Sure enough it was _perfect_ , and John perhaps a little too rushed took it off her, kissing her cheek as means of thanking her and scampering off again.

He looked in the mirror once more to finalise it, before stuffing the photo in his pocket. He grinned at himself, for his record time assembly. 

Then, with all the casualness in the world, he strolled back into the hallway, with no real direction. 

And, sure enough, it took him a little bit of walking to find George leave his room, stub a cigarette on the _wall_ , drop it, light another immediately after, before tapping the ash onto the floor.

John fake gasped, covering his mouth with his hand. “Where are your manners, boy?”

George turned around, a little shocked that John was there, and playfully flipped him off.

“‘S bad for your lungs, son.”

“ _You’re_ bad for my lungs.”

John raised his eyebrow in a _is that really the best you could do?_ fashion. George only smirked at him, before scanning him up and down, taking a proper look at him. He didn’t say anything for a moment. 

John suddenly felt sick. From the way George was studying him, he could tell that George saw that John looked familiar. The glint in George’s eye was uncomfortable because it forced him to judge just _why_ he’d done it, something which he’d successfully quashed before.

But George only smirked again, before shoving John excitedly down the hallway with a little _le’s go_.

George suddenly froze, before sticking his index finger up in a _wait_ motion, looking very serious. 

He rummaged in his pocket before holding one of John’s cheeks in one of his hand, a gentle _shh_ , still looking as engrossed as before. 

George’s touch was so hot that John found himself still anticipating what George was about to do when George had finished, but there felt like a phantom hand still on his cheek. 

John blinked, realising George had put a plaster on where he’d cut himself earlier on. 

As someone not particularly scatty yet, far from organised, it was a wonder as to why George would keep something bad practical and sensible as plasters in his pocket. 

John found that if he didn’t point that out, God knows what would come out of his mouth. And so he did, for the whole journey that George took him on to a random room, perhaps a little too excessively. 

But by that point, as they sat in the record room, George seemed already high out of his mind yet, not quite gone enough to notice John’s sobriety, smirking and handing to him.

A good thing, really, because something about John being level headed and George with no inhibitions made John shiver.

George was evidently way too classy to sit on the sofa, instead opting straight away to slump on the ground. 

“John, chuck something in front of the door or something.”

And then time went as a blur, as it always does, and John set himself an imaginary timer, in that he’d only consider even speaking to George when he gets that rush in his scalp, that he’d yet to find anything more relaxing.

“John.”

“Yes, son?”

“Wha’s the good version of an opportunist?”

“Eh?”

“Like, opportunists are always bad.”

“No they’re not.”

“They are.”

John turned to look at George. “You an opportunist?”

George laughed. “Tha’s you!”

What George meant by that was confusing. So confusing that John had to think about it, and, Lord did he think about it.

George grabbed the cuff of John’s sleeve  
“You _prick_ ,” John laughed at George.

“Think I prefer being drunk than high, y’know.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Hm?”

“Prefer not thinking,” George flashed a grin.

“Bob would kill ye if he heard you say that.”

George scanned the room. “Where’s Bob?” before grinning again, letting go of John’s arm, pushing him into sitting again before rifling through the record collection, huge and _weird_ , given George’s occasional _tsk tsk_ and _huh?_

“Fancy some Schubert, John?”

“Think it’s pronounced _Shoo-bert_ , pet.”

George persisted to say it wrong instead, insisting he studied German for a year thus was the intellectual authority here, holding a finger up if John argued otherwise.

“We all went to _fucking_ Hamburg!”

“Don’t remember _Skoobert_ being there, John.”

John rolled his eyes fondly. An image of the skinny, seventeen year old disappeared from his head as soon as it came. John shook his head, looking at adult George.

George searched for a listenable record to no avail. 

“Von Weber?”

“No.”

“Humperdinck?”

“Stupid name.”

“Schütz?”

“I’nt he the one who wrote _The Peanuts_?”

“Tha’s Schulz”

“Boo.”

“You’re impossible to please.”

“I’m difficult?”

“You’re so difficult.”

John smirked. “Go on then, g’is some Schütz then.”

George glared until his resolve finally broke, laughing and sauntering back to John, leaving a certain _musikalische exequien_ on the floor.

The idea of the snow suddenly became very attractive for our John, because he was really quite hot.

“Y’know, Mal could find us anything.”

“Yeah like, a screwdriver or something.”

“A screwdriver?”

“Mhm.”

“George you’re _so boring_.”

“‘M practical.”

“You’re boring.”

George threw a pillow at John _A pillow?_ “Why, what do you have in mind, son?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“I’ll call you what I please, son.”

“A Chinese.”

“A Chinese what?”

“What the fuck do you mean a Chinese what?”

“What’s Chinese?”

“ _Chinese_.”

And fucking George, always scheming so quickly so as not to be the one who made the mistake, feigned taking great insult to John. 

“I _do_ know what Chinese is, John.”

“I’m going to kill you.” 

Little George next played upset, suddenly hauling himself next to John and dramatically grabbing onto his jumper, all blubbery tears and a _you hate me, John? Plain old Georgie_

“I think like.”

“Think what?”

“Calypso.”

There was a few seconds of silence where they both looked straight forward, before horrifyingly coordinatingly turning to face each other, George beaming a beam so wide that it said it all. John only grinned and nodded.

—————————————————————

2 or so hours later, John and George were laying on the floor, listening to some Harry Belafonte album. George had been high enough to just remain completely star struck the whole time, a reaction John judged George would have much more were it not for the constant pretence of sobriety, all glowing and eyes really wide and the occasional _if we could write music like this, we’d take over the world._

John would only pat George’s head, not pointing out the irony.

“Try one of these,” John put a sweet into George’s hand.

“W’as it?”

John was too gone and too happy to provide coherency. “Marzipan. Chocolate.”

George smiled and shoved like, _4_ into his mouth, failing to peel all of the foil off of some so spending the next 20 seconds extracting them out of his mouth and flicking them at John.

“I hate you.”

George blew John a kiss. “You’re difficult.”

John shuffled closer to George, resting his head on his torso. George, still in his strange, calypso stupor, only wrapped his arm around John’s waist and yanked him up with surprising strength for someone so skinny, so that they were completely parallel to each other.

“I think I know this one,” George had the rather endearing quality of pronouncing his _ths_ as _fs_ when high, turning on his side to face John, making the first eye contact they had in an hour or so. 

George seemed to note the same thing too, suddenly laughing and shaking his head. “Think we just know each other, you know?”

John smiled. “Hm?”

“‘S like I don’t even have to talk to you to talk to you.”

If George knew what those words could do to John, he certainly didn’t show it, because he didn’t go to hold John’s hand nor did he go to touch John’s cheek when, really, he really maybe could have.

Propping himself up on his elbow, George looked down on John. 

His eyes suddenly darkened, as if _realising_ something, before looking back down at John. He smiled in a way that, frankly showed nothing, in true George fashion.

George carried on studying him, before his eyes flashed a sense of _something_ , as if he’d forgotten to do something, literally, as if he’d been impolite, a kind of _oh! i’m so sorry!_

George’s eyes trailed down John’s torso before his hands hung at the bottom of John’s jumper.

John didn’t breathe. 

_Nod. He’s nodding at you_ , to which John sat up, answering George non verbally by aiding him in taking said jumper off.

“George.”

“Hm?”

They made a few seconds of eye contact, George looking almost desperately confused yet a beautiful kind of mellow. He pulled John’s jumper completely off. 

John had to turn away for a moment, whisper-screaming right into his wrist so that no one ( _no one. fuck that_ ) would hear.

John didn’t know what kind of face he was pulling, or even what he was doing, but he judged it must’ve been _wrong_ given the embarrassed smile George gave him, but he couldn’t think in terms of any wrong right now because ultimately, John’s jumper was in George’s hands, and, _fuck, your jumper’s in his hands._

John went over to reach for George’s own jumper, simultaneously to George pushing John’s jumper over to where John’s head was previously lain.

It must’ve taken John a little while to work out what that meant, because George carried on looking at John in this weird nervous way ( _nervous? is he nervous?_ ).

“What?”

George shrugged his shoulders, stretching his arms. He reluctantly patted John’s jumper on the floor, John’s hand still on the bottom hem of George’s jumper, offering John a weak smi- _oh._

“Oh God.”

George only looked up at him with guilty eyes, _with an undertone of something else, but-_

“ _Oh my God_.”

“I thought your head would be more comfortable, I-“ George managed to cut his _own self_ off solely by looking like he was about to cry. Had John stayed long enough, he might’ve felt sorry for George.

Now, in retrospect, had George done that any other time, John probably would have melted- the prospect of someone caring about him enough to want his head to be comfortable on a fucking _wooden floor_ was absolutely _dizzying_ , but at that moment, John’s cheeks were seared and no one had hurt him in his life the way George just had.

John slammed the door behind him.

—————————————————————

He awoke with an aggressively gnarly feeling in his chest. 

Ironic, really, that Cyn had already left- she must’ve packed her things the night before. Julian was staying with her parents, who adored the boy, but Cyn didn’t really seem much herself anymore without him. Funny, she’d make excuses to _see_ Julian which was such a horrifyingly alien concept to John that he had to berate himself for it. George and Paul would frown at him- Paul especially took to the boy, and it was heart wrenching, more than anything. He berated himself enough and most of the time genuinely wallowed in a sense of self hatred; if he wasn’t thinking about anything else, he was thinking of Julian, sometimes in the _veryworstmoments_ , but never enough to do anything about it, or, rather, never enough to force him to alter his own really quite cowardly and ignorant nature. He knew that, he did know that.

Which all in all meant that John would be sleeping by himself for the rest of the trip, which, embarrassingly, John loathed more than anything. 

_It’s like I don’t even have to talk to you._

In all honesty, John usually had a habit of forgetting things first thing in the morning. He enjoyed more than anything the numbness of the first few minutes of waking up, where he didn’t have to think of anything because he couldn’t think of anything. Some years, he’d wake up on the morning of his birthday, and those 10 minutes where it wasn’t his birthday because he didn’t _remember_ it was his birthday were absolute bliss.

Perhaps John had never really fell asleep though, because that didn’t happen this morning, considering his only other genuine thought other than noting Cyn’s absence was to either opt for avoiding George like the plague or make his life a living hell.

If there was one good thing about John’s life though, if you forced him to answer, it would be that in Austria there were fucking _outstanding_ pastries.

Ringo was already in the dining bit, happily munching away. He’d boasted of already being competent at Austrian coffee, claiming that the chefs just ‘liked him the best’ and had ‘gifted him the gift of knowledge’.

Ringo smirked when he saw John, handing him a mug. “Not usually you awake, first, son.”

To Ringo’s left was Pattie and Mo, both makeupless and fresh and really quite pure.

“Cyn left this morning.”

“Think it was last night, John,” John physically restrained from covering his face with his sleeve in guilt.

Ringo smirked again. “Can come share with me and Mo.” 

John rolled his eyes fondly, as if he could do anything but.

John, very generously, decided to opt on merely ignoring George. That was, until Paul and George strolled in a little later together, John’s cheeks flaring up at the _both_ of them, and seeing the boy’s face made John an itchy angry. 

To be fair, it was a lovely atmosphere- John reckoned it was the epitome of upper class living, sipping Ringo’s said coffee that was _hand picked, like_ , in the fucking Alps, still a little dark.

 _Completely unbothered, you go John!_  
John threw his head back at something Paul had said, even though he could safely say Paul was perhaps the least funny person he’d ever met, perhaps a little _too_ accentuated, but it worked for two reasons- for one, he could pretend they were on holiday, just the four of them ( _maybe the three of them- that’d be nicer. Yeah, you’d prefer that? He’s quiet anyway, doesn’t pipe up all that much, no, quiet as a mouse_ ) and not fifteen of them all there- he could pretend they weren’t working, and that maybe they’d all just been born into 4 storey mansions just outside of London, of which they didn’t spend much time in, didn’t _need_ to spend any time in, because they preferred to spend time skiing, as did their fathers and their fathers’ fathers. Easy pretending they didn’t have to earn where they were, and that he’d never seen post war deprivation or skinny children. His mum had once told him that in the 1800s, Liverpool had an average life expectancy of 16. He hadn’t understood averages at the time, thinking that everyone would drop dead on their 16th birthday, but no, it was just 1-or-2-year-old babes dying before their 6th birthday that skewed the statistics. He’d found himself grateful at one point, actively _indebted_ that his friends’ lines had made it this far, without their great grandfather’s drowning in the wet dock. It was probably why John had to resist every urge to not break his mug with his fist when Pattie laughed again, all ritzy and glassy and _posh_. On George’s lap. That too. 

With a flash of smugness, he made a mental note of _posh_. It would work later, putting George off Pattie, and George would just have to live with that.

It also worked for the game, the one that always made his cheeks hot but he’d find himself grinning despite it, and, God, now was no exception.

He leaned back in his chair and grinned over the rim of his cup, absentmindedly stroking his clothed shoulder.

“ _Ah_.” 

John jumped a little, so distracted prior that acclimatising to Paul rabbiting would probably prove useless.

“He asked you _what_?”

Paul shrugged. “Don’t know. Just asked me why we included _ah_ in our names.”

 _Oh._ John smirked to Ringo, entertained by Paul’s thickness. “Who asked you this?”

“One of the cooks. Spoke hardly any English.”

“And what did you say?”

“Didn’t say anything. Didn’t get it.”

George finally caught on, guffawing. “‘ve had that before,” he placed his hand on his chest and did his best shocked face, “ _Käfer?_ ”

Ringo laughed again, but Paul could only offer a forced chuckle. “Don’t get it.”

John grinned. “Should’ve told them it stood for average, Paulie.”

Paul still sat there bemused, looking as if he was a school boy left out of his friendship group. “ _What?_ ”

“Beetles _are_ actually the most popular group of animals- ‘s some genius on your behalf, John.”

“Did you just call us _animals_?” Paul whimpered again.

“Not Beatles, _beetles_ ,” George looped both of his index fingers through his hair and stuck them up as if they were antennae. Business as fucking usual for George, it seemed.

Paul looked blank for a second until he finally gasped and grinned. “The a in Beatles! He was asking about the a in Beatles!” The other three applauded him, but he’d already started scowling again. “People like _beetles_? Fucking _beetles_ are popular?”

“Don’t think he meant like that, son.”

“There’s more beetles than anything else.”

Paul seemed genuinely shocked. “Come off it. You’re lying.”

“‘s a 100% true. Beetles are the biggest group in the animal kingdom,” where the fuck Ringo had learned this from, John didn’t know.

“We’re called the Beatles because we’re the biggest band in the world!” 

George grinned. “No, ‘s cause we’re the most average.”

John laughed to himself at how degraded they’d all become, gossiping about _insects_ , and was about to bring it up when he spied George, as seemingly relaxed as he was, scribbling again on his hand.

“What you writing George, hm?”

Paul turned around to look at John, as confused as he had been the whole morning, raising an eyebrow.

George tilted his head too. “What?”

“Your hand. You’re writing,” John beamed at George, perhaps a little _too_ sarky but way too far in to care.

George looked back at his hand and then back at John, managing only probably a second of eye contact before looking back at his hand.

“It’s cause he’s difficult,” Paul ruffled George’s hair affectionately.

John froze, the sheer coincidence of Paul saying _that_ ringing for a while in his ears. He covered his own cheeks with his hand lest anyone see anything, but he grinned regardless, wanting to kiss Paul’s feet for bringing such a thing up- _oh, this couldn’t have gone better!_

John didn’t know what he was waiting for, but it was something along the lines of embarrassment, maybe just a _little_ flush, but there was nothing, not at all- not even an awkward head scratch, you know, not even a stiff _laugh_. Just the usual George Harrison indifference, absolute fucking _indifference_. George only gave him a customary nod, no _John, I need a cig, let’s go_ , and then they’d go outside and George would boldly say something along the lines of _John, tell  
me, do you think of it as I do?_, and then John would have to politely let him down, tell him that, yes, he knows George looks up to him and all, but John’s never thought about George a day in his life- not little Georgie, _you’re like my little brother, for God’s sake_ , and George would be beside himself, poor boy, and John would have to, y’know, _hug him_ and let his shoulder get all wet while he strokes George’s hair back, and then he’d have to let George come back with him to his room, because Paul or Pattie would, don’t know, _beat him up_ , like, ‘cause he was crying or something.

John doused George’s not-so-baby face with the remnants of his lukewarm mug of coffee.  
_______________________________________

And thus John kept on playing his game, to such an extent that both Paul and Ringo commented on his constant good humour and happiness whilst poor George flinched just a _little_ when John was near, actively noting his grumpiness and bluntness.

It was easy, really, and it was just like Hamburg- it wasn’t even so much the superiority complex, it was more the exclusion- talking with Paul about decisions they never really had to make that George could only watch, trying to include himself but being firmly hushed by John. He wasn’t too young anymore, never really was, but the audacity and the _guts_ of George made him starkly unlovable. So unlovable that John wasn’t sure he’d ever felt such an intense emotion than that of hating George. Suddenly nothing seemed to be striking enough from distracting him from disliking George. _Dodging thinking about George is easier when you can’t stand the boy_.

Whenever he’d walk into a room with George in it, he’d laugh at something someone else said to show George he was _fine, thanks for asking_.

George never reacted all that much; he never looked upset or angry, he just got quiet and pensive, and would almost hide behind his hair, not down enough to appear humiliated but it was along those lines. John could often see him go to say something to someone and then quickly retreat as if he thought better of it in the end. It started off with John, where he’d catch George (but never acknowledge it or voice it out) laughing at something and getting up to go and whisper it in John’s ear, before he’d redirect himself and take a detour to sit back in his chair. When they were standing, he’d seem to retreat behind Paul or lean into his warmth a little. He was quieter, yet _still_ never looked flushed or bothered. _There’s no evidence of anything. Isn’t that good? Don’t you want that_?

But now John and Paul were sitting cross legged on the bed, both the spitting image of each other with their sleeves around their hands and their elbows perched firmly on their knees, across from a grumpy and irritable but also surprisingly good natured George, who, to the amusement of the other three, or, more possibly disgust, (Ringo had the envy inducing talent of being able to sleep like a baby but had very generously stayed awake after Paul’s complaints that John and George were too _boring_ ), had opted to sleep in his denim jeans to combat the cold, in their lovely heated hotel room.

They’d decided to all stay together one night, you know, _for old times sake_. It was Paul’s suggestion, but was also evidently to his own distress; not five minutes after proposing that they share, he claimed he’d ‘never really liked them all that much’ and would really rather prefer to ‘spend more time with the Austrians’.

But they were huddled there, half drunk and half high nattering about little things, each man nowhere near as intoxicated to start reminiscing on the past or talk about things they loved (which was sometimes, god forbid, _each other_ ) save for Paul, maybe, who became a real sap so long as the wine was to his taste and he wasn’t mindlessly bitching. George was more on the don’t-say-anything-unless-you’re-about-to-pass-  
out team, but became a little bit lovely when he was high, to the not-so-secret satisfaction of his band mates, who would coo at him and hug him to return his affection. John, especially, had exploited that, really. Once he’d managed to get George on his shoulders like he did with Jules, and George had been so excited that afterwards, he gave John a hug, but the kind that birds do, and wrapped his arms around his neck and his legs around his torso.

“‘S easy, really, just as long as you don’t stay out too long, ‘nd get your arse cold.”

Paul pulled a face. “He’s grumpy ‘cause he’s too pretty to get a neck brace when he has a tumble,” George piped up in response to John’s attempt to reassure Paul about skiing. Paul gave George his best stink eye, actually _leaning over_ to shove George’s face backward with his hand. In retaliation, George squeezed himself into the little duvet cocoon that John and Paul were currently sitting shoulder to shoulder in.

“George, I swear to f- _GEORGE!_ ” George yanked the side of the blanket that had previously been in Paul’s grasp, firmly planting himself in Paul’s old spot, leaning right into John for an optimum position to kick Paul like a toddler. 

George tugged the blanket out of John’s grasp too, holding both ends like a _fucking parachute_ before wrapping both of his arms around John’s back to highlight the exclusivity of the little cave thing they had going on. He buried his face right into John’s neck, peeking every second or two at Paul, resembling much more a child than a twenty-three year old man. He all but wound up in John’s lap, rendering his elder completely immobile- John could only watch as the two littlest tried to kick box themselves back into the blanket. George was laughing, Paul was shrieking, but John, John felt as if he was about to keel over and black out completely. It wasn’t the intimacy that bothered him, it was George’s failure to be _bothered he really ought to be bothered cause it’s not fair at all_. Even as it was happening, John struggled to keep up with it all and could only really remark on how light George felt and gave absolutely no acknowledgement to the fact that _George’s chest is rubbed right up on your own and it’s really fucking hot oh it is too hot get right out of here_. He didn’t.

John must’ve been pulling a mean face, or indifferent at best, because when George turned back around to look at him, his grin (the really rare kind, very toothy) faltered and he let his arms slide down John’s back before edging himself away a little from John’s weight. John didn’t have much time to think about it before George was scampering down the hallway with Paul right on his tail, swinging a makeshift weapon of some weird Austrian newspaper that none of them could read, and John was alone again.

John laid back down on the bed, wriggling his toes to try and pull off his socks without his hands, even though it ought to be fucking _osmoregulation’s_ job to keep him cool.

“Johannes, I see you,” a giggle came from Ringo’s general direction. It made him jump.

“‘M sick of babysitting, should’ve chucked ‘im and Pattie in t’yours and Mo’s room, then we wouldn’t be having this.”

“Mayhaps I should have, hm? Only one strong enough to manhandle him when he starts acting up.”

“Ritchie it takes _nothing_ to pick up Geo, ‘e’s nothing more than a gnat.”

“Puts up a fight though. Stronger than you an’ Paul.”

John feigned a heart attack, dramatically collapsing off of his bed and into Ringo’s.

“Nah, ‘m like one of those ‘merican olympians, me- the ones we saw on that show.”

Ringo raised an eyebrow.

“Swear. ‘m on a six thousand calorie diet everyday. All muscle, I am.”

Ringo sighed and put his arm round John. “Claiming to eat more than George is a battle you will never win, love.”

John opened his mouth to protest, but instead looked Ringo in the eye and pretended to cry.

“G’on, I betcha can’t.”

“Do what?”

“Pick up Geo. Hold him long enough to put him down on the bed, see how squirmy an’ kicky he is,” John only shivered, and a horrifying _knowing_ glint sparkled in Ringo’s eye, before he stiffened and fixed his eyes upon the wall, his face rigid and tense. He smiled at John, looking awfully proud of himself before fixing his eyes again. “‘S my impression of stiff John.”

“ _Stiff John_?”

“Yeah. ‘S how you looked before with you and George all wrapped up and that.”

If that had been Paul who said that, John would have just insisted he leave the band, but he was convinced Ringo could sign John’s own execution warrant and John would still love him for it. 

“‘M not _stiff_. Never stiff.”

“You’re always stiff, John, pet,” John and Ringo both turned around at the intrusion of Paul with George right behind him, the former sporting a great dust streak on his white pyjama shirt.

“Macduff, ich bitter dich,” George recited something from the book he was holding that sounded _very suspiciously like German fucking Shakespeare_. “Paul, w’as that say?” 

Both boys reversed closer to the doorway to allow more light onto the book, furiously squinting and scratching their heads.  
“ _wider- widerspricht,_ I think it’s widerspricht.”

“Tell me you two haven’t found German Macbeth,” Ringo groaned into his hands. George winked at him in response.

“Who’s Macbeth, then?”

George raised his hand. “Should be me. ‘M the most noble and fetching.” Paul made a pained sound in very obvious disagreement.

“Not sure you have this whole plot thing down, you baby.” Ringo laid back on the bed, resting his head on the palms of his hands. 

“If George’s Macbeth, I get to be Banquo.” 

A shriek of disagreement came from all three other men, with John going as far as dramatically falling backwards as if a small scale bomb had been detonated.

“There is _no fucking way_ you’d be Banquo.”

“What’s Banquo got that I haven’t?”

“‘E’s gracious, like. Bet he doesn’t sleep with his eyes open.”

“Hate to say it, Paulie, but he’s right. Yer much more of a Lady Macbeth.”

Paul pointed at himself with a pained exclamation, looking visibly upset, squeaking a _”Me?”_

“Look the part, too. Girly and sleepwalking, you’ve got it down.”

“I don’t even sleepwalk!”

George snorted aside to John. “Doesn't deny he’s girly,” John snorted, more at George’s audacity to joke with him than the actual joke itself.

“You do, son. Got the devil in ya.”

George sauntered over to his new found wife, fiddling with her hair by means of wooing her whilst unknowingly getting _absolutely debilitated_ by the subject of his affection in German.

Ringo shook his head fondly at George, disbelieving of how a boy really quite clever could have the fucking _audacity_ to mess up Shakespeare with such conviction. 

“George, you’re _adorable_.”

John _could_ find it in himself to disagree. If George hadn’t been there, he’d probably ask Ritchie what his thought process was behind that.

_You could do with a little bit of that, y’know. Some George loving. It would make it so much easier._

John turned to George to smirk at him, a dizzying habit he’d picked up since the night before last, perhaps more a sneer than a smirk, even. This time, George kept his eyes for a little longer, not frowning per sé, but looking at John as if George was a teacher and John was the class clown, really quite disrespectful and ugly.

George sighed before sauntering off again, no one really noticing that he left, save for all of them _asking where he had gone_ , you know, _that_ , apart from our John, who had obviously had his back turned to George when he’d left and didn’t listen for his footsteps to see when he’d arrive again.

When he did return, in a superficially better mood that John could see right through, or maybe it was purely the idea that John couldn’t fathom nor stand the concept that George could be happy that Ringo had recently pointed out, George was carrying an alien acoustic guitar, not his but someone else’s.

He played some random chords, and as soon as he did, John knew the sonority of the guitar would pose some problems.

George adored Spanish guitar, perhaps a culture shock for where they were staying, but seeing George play was so suffocatingly George that in that moment, John refused to believe that anyone but George could play that, that it was George’s own material.

Watching George, it was different. Sad, really, because if you asked John what he wanted the most, he’d say for George to be sad right now, wholeheartedly. And to see him play like this, as engrossed as he always was, stung.

But John had been looking at George’s guitar. Looking at George, however-

He squeezed his hands on his lap; he was completely immobile save for being able to pull and rub on the skin right under his thumb, realising that since George had started playing, he hadn’t kept his eyes off him.

He reached out for Paul’s shoulder, not really wanting his attention, instead steadying himself or, rather, looking for something familiar and something _fucking comfortable oh fuck yourself_. Paul turned around and scowled at John, who nodded his head toward the boy. The boy in question had rested the guitar between his legs so that he had his eyes focused sideways on the fretboard.

Paul turned back around to John, shooting daggers at him and whispering a rather harsh _what?_ and when John failed to reply, Paul turned his head back to George, face softening but eyes still ferociously squinting- a suspiciously disproportionate reaction of a man who had so passionately disagreed with what John had said( _what he didn’t say?_ ).

They must’ve looked the right pair, _holding each other’s hands when the fuck did that happen_ and staring at their oblivious friend with the suffocating realisation of _when the fuck did that happen_ , when Ringo glanced at the two, a horrible, knowing glint in his eye when he piped up with a harmless “Georgie, play something old for us, yeah?”

John inclined his head toward Ringo in confusion, he’d known him long enough to know _exactly_ when his little smile would lead to something bad. Ringo mouthed the name of a song in response to John’s silent question.

John was still for a second before he frantically shook his head at Ringo (making sure to give George a motherly smile on instinct when he turned round to John and Paul) in a _no, no, don’t you fucking dare_ knowing quite horrifyingly _exactly_ what Ringo was about to request, Ringo his fucking _friend_ who should have wanted the best for him, and not make him and Paul ogle a fucking _fourteen year old_ play the guitar and _oh he’s the youngest he’s only a baby and you’re fucking perverted oh you’re fucking perverted!_

In this light, George was really quite striking, and the more John said it wasn’t so the worst it got, because everything from the dark eyebrows to the wonky teeth that had made him so very boyish now made him masculine and compelling and horrifically beautiful that it was objective. 

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Give us Raunchy, I say!”

“Aha!” George giggled, shooting John and Paul a big, toothy grin, who, to their own credit, managed to mirror his smile. Paul turned to him with big, wide eyes.

When George started playing it was _Paul_ that let out the despaired sigh, burying his face right between his hands amidst his inability to watch his friend for any longer. John rather embarrassingly followed suit, giving the perpetrator the finger before feeling his cheeks flare up like a _fucking bird_ , resisting every urge to scream into his palm. 

_Oh but, look, it’s not little George, it’s man George, it isn’t did-you-see-me-wave? George, it isn’t John-let-me-teach-you-B7! George, it’s lovely George, oh, but it’s the same George, and oh, he’s hideous he’s stopped looking at you like that for a while now because he doesn’t fucking deserve it and he doesn’t want it because you hate him and he doesn’t fucking want it and doesn’t want you and, oh-_

“Me an’ Paul are sleeping next door,” John had little time to think of the implications of his sudden exclamation (which were, inarguably, _bad_ given the way Paul was looking at him) before he grabbed Paul’s arm and stormed out the door, poor little George only managing a _but I didn’t even get to-_ before the John shut the door with his back.

One could assume that Paul would know better than to ask questions, being one of John’s closest friends, and, _y’know_ , having known him for _eight fucking years_. He didn’t, though, grabbing John quite harshly by the shoulders, scraping in only a _what the fuck was that_? before John had already slumped on the bed closest to the window, turning his back toward Paul.

The accusation hung in the air, Paul not necessarily _calling_ him anything, but the sentiment was still there, like the other day, only more aggressive and more accusatory. John sat up on his arm and laughed, an exaggerated, horrible laugh, fixing his eyes upon Paul.

And still, that paradox of George playing something so young but looking as he did now-

“I saw you looking at him too, mind. All gawking at your George,” Paul stiffened. “Always been like that, yeah? Little Georgie and Paulie, bright enough to go to grammar school.”

Paul’s face had gone completely white; John carried on.

“You saw it too. It’s not handsome Paul anymore, now, is it?

“I never said I was the handsome one.” Paul looked as if he was about to cry.

“Sexy, cute, they’re all the same, aren’t they, now?”

“ _John_ -“ Paul’s lips trembled. John pulled a face at him, the kind of mock sympathetic one, walking over to him to place his hands on his arms. 

“Oh, but it’s not that, it isn’t that, really, is it? He’s your little brother, your _knuddelbarchën_ , does he know you want to fuck him?”

Paul turned bloodless, but John was on fucking fire. “You’re wrong, John, you’ve gone so _fucking wrong_.”

“Does he, Paul, does he know you want your dick up his arse? Exploit the boy’s baby complex, poor thing- could do just about anything to him, methinks, so that he could think he could keep up with Lennon & McCartney. I reckon you could kill him, we could snap the boy’s neck if we told him it would keep him here.”

Because, God, wouldn’t be a holiday if John hadn’t crossed every boundary possible. 

Before John had the gift of retrospect, the gift of reflection, Paul grabbed John by his shirt. “That’s _George_ you’re talking about. It’s George,” he lifted a shaky finger and pinned it right into John’s chest, an action so bold that he wasn’t sure Paul had ever acted that way before.

Paul looked horrified and sad and scared. John told him he disgusted him and he ought not to be friends with someone such as him.

He usually had an hour, an hour before he could question whether he’d been right or not, but he knew he’d overstepped it this time.

Still John spat the words before hurrying himself out of the hotel all together, kicking the snow, and John decided right there that George McCartney was the ugliest name he’d ever come across, too furious to even work out their names, that George’s name might as well be Paul and Paul’s George, because they were perfect for each other, like little twins, that matched each other’s energies perfectly, in the worst way possible, hellbent on making John’s life ruin. 

He dropped down, not minding the way it made the back of his jeans soak. ( _He does mind. He really really cares_.)

—————————————————————  
_I think you’re supposed to think. I think you’re probably supposed to address it._

_Address what?_

_Fair play. I think most things you usually don’t think about._

_That’s never true. I always tackle it head on._

_You know you’re being silly._

_I know._

_Paul._

_What about him?_

_You know._

_I don’t._

_Your closest friend._

_He’s not part of the narrative._

_What narrative?_

_The narrative. He shouldn’t have inquired in the first place._

_You adore Paul._

_I loathe him. I loathe him and his gangly little friend. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for them._

_You wouldn’t._

_I wouldn’t._

_Maybe you’d be at the wet dock instead._

_I could drown there._

_You could freeze here._

_I’ll take that._

_You don’t mean that. What if they miss you?_

_They’d deserve it._

_They wouldn’t. You know that feeling._

_You’re right._

_I know._

_They wouldn’t deserve it._

_I know. Thank you._

_Are there ghosts out here?_

_I think someone told you there was._

_That’s the only condition he can come out._

_If he’s scared?_

_Yeah._

_That’s sweet._

_It’s what we do for each other._

_Yeah, you did that quite a lot. I think you were more scared than he was._

_Maybe._

_That’s big of you._

_Maybe._

_Somewhere else, they might be watching a horror film again. It’s now that John can see that it might be a frightening motif between them. Somewhere else, it’s George stroking John’s hair because the something doesn’t exist, and there’s nothing established that means that John couldn’t enjoy something like that, personal or legal._

John winces in embarrassment, a feeling that many seem to think doesn’t come naturally to him, but, _oh, if they could see_. 

He’s had this feeling before, the one that’s easy to explain, because it’s solely a feeling of helplessness, and, not for the first time in his life, John can say he’s lost again, and now, even with the humiliation, he can still only think of what he _wants_ , as if he’s too pathetic enough to even think of himself, that even in times like this he’ll only ever think about _him_ , cursed _him_ , who’s never wanted anything bad on John since, what, ever? 

And that doesn’t bring him solace, it never does, only guilt, a hot kind, a kind that feels like death, both because he’ll yell at him in fear and as well because of what it represents, what it represents about _John_ , what, the joint most famous man in the world, along with the 3 other _boys_ , which ought to really sound conceited, but it’s fucking _true_.

He knows that ( _and realises, almost worryingly that he’s depended on this power for the last few years of his life without ever really acknowledging it_ ) if he thinks about him enough, he’ll eventually come to see him, with that half shy half confident walk.

But this time, he doesn’t know what he’ll do, he just knows he wants him there. He’ll usually just give him a fond glare, but he doesn’t know what Paul’s told him. 

_Paul_. The idea of Paul is inexplicably worse, perhaps because it isn’t really about Paul. Wrong place wrong time, if you will, and now Paul’s tangled in this mess of John’s fire and George.

 _George_. Amid Raunchy on the empty bus and now. You’d never suppress an illness. If you’d had something for years, you’d see a doctor. Yet John, with all the willpower in the world, had done just that, and lived with it like a weight, like a clamp, really. And now, he’s let it ruin him, because everything he wants he can get.

John’s eyes suddenly come back into focus to see, sure enough, George in front of him, handing him a coat and fretting that he _really shouldn’t have gone outside this cold_.

“You’re not my dad.”

George frowns, maintaining John’s eye contact. “I know I’m not.”

If John has been avoiding George all week, it climaxes as this, because George can’t find words and clearly wants something yet.

John knows he’s glaring, even though he’s hot again in subzero temperatures.

He rolls his eyes. “What do you want, George?”

“What do _I_ want?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t want you to be cold.”

“Fuck _off_ , George.” 

John begins walking back to the hotel, before George hurries to grab his hand.

He seems to be searching for the right thing to say, because he looks almost animated, looking around for an answer. “I was… _scared_?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Nor do I.”

“Leave me alone George,” John progresses forward, but George squeezes his hand more aggressively this time, so much so that John is yanked backwards.

“It doesn’t always have to be like this.”

“What?”

“I can’t let you do this to me. I won’t let you do this to me.”

There it is. Of John’s fears of it not bothering George, he realises he’s wrong. He isn’t sure as to whether he’d ever heard George speak in such a way. 

“I didn’t do anything to you.”

“I didn’t do anything to you!” 

John falters. It was such a simple statement, but, from George’s mouth, it stung, because well and truly, George really, really _hadn’t_ -

“What do you want from me, John?”

“There’s nothing I want from you, son,”

“I know.”

“You _know_?”

“Yeah.”

 _Dejected. He sounds dejected._ and the thought of that alone means he becomes suddenly so overwhelmed with love for the boy that he puts on the coat George handed him and wrapped his arms around him, letting George bury his head in John’s neck. George squeezes back with just as much thoroughness.

“I hate it as much as you do,” his voice is muffled since it’s buried in John’s coat. John just squeezes him in return- he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to say anything. “But I’m obsessed with it.”

John’s blood goes so hot that he has to push back George to study his face. George’s eyes are pretty, really pretty.

“John,” George leans closer, his eyes still wide, practically asking John for validation. John must’ve nodded or something, because George goes straight to his neck, holding the weight of John’s head in his other hand so that John really doesn’t have to do anything.

In moments like these, John wishes he could be lost in the moment, but the sheer _moment_ is blessedly _something_ , because, _oh,_ George has your weight like you do his, and _God, he knows what he’s doing_ , but then again George could do absolutely anything and it would be enthralling, but maybe this was especially beautiful. 

And they haven’t actually done anything yet, but George leans out and gives John a big toothy grin.

John smiles back. “George.”

George grins again, almost cheekily, before caressing John’s cheek one more time.

And next John has to do a double take, because they’ve had this thing established for a solid 30 seconds and George is already sinking to his knees, and John must’ve squeaked out a _George,_ , maybe a _George, I don’t think-_ , and perhaps even a _George, there won’t even be anything there,_ , but George just shakes his head and laughs, before unzipping John’s trousers.

And then, what happens is something John would surely have to consider a core memory in the future, because the last thing he heard was George laughing to himself and the next thing he _feels_ , is, solely and exclusively, _cold_ , cold all down his trousers, and the next thing he hears after his own shrill scream is George laughing again, only much, _much_ louder than before, because John’s only capability as of right now is letting out a stream of curses, some threatening to strangle George without actually saying it.

George is off quicker than John can pick up his own snowball, and then they’re running, _you fucking prick!_ , and George is straight up cackling, before _he_ slips right on to his _tailbone! my fucking tailbone!_ , and then it’s John’s turn to laugh, maybe more than the time Aunt Mimi tripped up at one of his parents evening, maybe even _more_ than the time Paul got into an argument with an Italian waiter who understood not a word of english.

John skids down beside George to, quite literally, add insult to injury and mock and jab him. George only shrieks like a boy, but John’s trousers _literally have a melted snowball down them_ , so, _frankly_ , he doesn’t care, and gives George a snowball of his own.

John is still very hot and George just might be too, because even after John just planted snow in his face, he’s still glowing, he’s still laughing, and then his hands are all over John, and then it might just be John’s turn to melt.

Between kisses, albeit very patchy and detached and almost staccato ( _that sounds right!_ ), that he’s glad, and that’s really it, just in a few more words. John might say it back too. He thinks he does. Maybe just in a few more words.

—————————————————————

Perhaps, the only dubiously _bad things_ John does in the following days, amid a fucking insatiable sex drive and those chocolate marzipan sweets, was turn up late for filming, and not apologise to Paul.

Or maybe he does, just not verbally. He gives him his pastries. He asks him joke questions like what his favourite Beatles song is. He’ll play footsies with him under the table.

Because if anything has become more clear, it was that John could be mean. He’d never reflected as much in his life as he did in the last three days of Austria.

George is surprisingly more bold than John- he has this air of shamelessness, and has the same glow as he did in the picture. He lets John take ones of him whenever he wants to (perhaps not _whenever_ , you know, for obvious reasons). 

_Go-getter!_

_Go-getter?_

_’S a good version of an opportunist_

Is particularly memorable, in which George follows up with his revelation by making love to John so keenly that it blows John’s mind. George champions the title of go-getter.

George says nice things, really nice things. He’s a sap, really, something only his closest friends would he able to tell you.

And as lovely as George is, the question of Pattie and Cyn remains unaddressed by either of them. Even Brian, they don’t talk about Brian, or Paul or Ringo, but, as avoidant as it is, they don’t have the time. They’ve got ages to talk about it. They can talk about it until they’re dead. God, can they talk.

On the last day, George tells John that he saw a baby fawn earlier on, and that they should go and find it again and give it a name. John pulls George’s hair affectionately, because George has the endearing quality of never quite hacking the idea that you didn’t need to put ‘baby’ in front of fawn, but any education to George Harrison will be futile because he knows George will quite happily go on saying baby chick and baby puppy for the rest of his life.

And so, on the morning of departure date John and George have named a deer Maus- _has to be Maus and not Mouse- we don’t half-arse things here in Austria_ , that won’t even stay still, really, despite their _best_ efforts.

They have to postpone the flight in the end. John blames George and George blames John, and, _God_ has John gone soft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg😐😐😐 over a YEAR on i finally got round to it- fun fact, i have actually been writing this since the last chapter, it’s just taken so much modification and cutting down and the plot changes like a bazillion times. 
> 
> at first, i felt i’d rushed john and george’s moment outside, but LORD did these boys abstain. a lot of this moves very quickly, before dragginggggg on again in other parts. 
> 
> if time correlated to quality this would be much better, but i love john and george all the same x
> 
> feedback is appreciated as always, and i’m SO sorry for the long wait - they have each other now. 
> 
> ****** about photo developing- i added this to the story just for cute factor, but i’m really worried it’s a total anachronism- if anyone knows anything about it please let me know! x i also wish the boys had their own personal camera as detailed, but alas, we get what we’re given ://
> 
> ooo one more thing- the bit where john and paul are watching george play- i’ve written it as if both of them are in love with him, but it’s more just a dual realisation of how attractive george’s got- in this story, paul doesn’t fancy george hehe 
> 
> love love love ty ty xx


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